THE 
MANAGER 
B.6-A. 


VAUCHAN  KESTER 


• 


OF  CALIF.   IIBRARt,   LOS  AJTGELES 


THE  MANAGER 
OF  THE  B.  &  A. 

A    NOVEL 


BY 

VAUGHAN  KESTER 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  PRODIGAL  JUDGE 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  ::  NEW  YORK 

Published  by  Arrangement  with  Harper  &  Brothers 


COPYRIGHT,  1901,  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 
THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  UNCLE 

HARRY  WATKINS 


21306RO 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 


CHAPTER  I 

OAKLEY  was  alone  in  the  bare  general  offices 
of  the  Huckleberry  Line — as  the  Buckhorn 
and  Antioch  Railroad  was  commonly  called  by  the 
public,  which  it  betrayed  in  the  matter  of  meals  and 
connections.  He  was  lolling  lasdry  over  his  desk 
with  a  copy  of  the  local  paper  before  him,  and  the 
stem  of  a  disreputable  cob  pipe  between  his  teeth. 

The  business  of  the  day  was  done,  and  the  noise 
and  hurry  attending  its  doing  had  given  way  to  a 
sudden  hush.  Other  sounds  than  those  that  had 
filled  the  ear  since  morning  grew  out  of  the  stillness. 
Big  drops  of  rain  driven  by  the  wind  splashed  softly 
against  the  unpainted  pine  door  which  led  into  the 
yards,  or  fell  with  a  gay  patter  on  the  corrugated  tin 
roof  overhead.  No.  7,  due  at  5.40,  had  just  pulled 
out  with  twenty  minutes  to  make  up  between  Antioch 
and  Harrison,  the  western  terminus  of  the  line. 
The  six-o'clock  whistle  had  blown,  and  the  men  from 
the  car  shops,  a  dingy,  one-story  building  that  joined 
the  general  offices  on  the  east,  were  straggling  off 
A  I 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

home.  Across  the  tracks  at  the  ugly  little  depot  the 
ticket-agent  and  telegraph-operator  had  locked  up 
and  hurried  away  under  one  umbrella  the  moment 
No.  7  was  clear  of  the  platform.  From  the  yards 
every  one  was  gone  but  Milton  McClintock,  the 
master  mechanic,  and  Dutch  Pete,  the  yard  boss. 
Protected  by  dripping  yellow  oil -skins,  they  were 
busy  repairing  a  wheezy  switch  engine  that  had 
been  incontinently  backed  into  a  siding  and  the 
caboose  of  a  freight. 

Oakley  was  waiting  the  return  of  Clarence,  the 
office-boy,  whom  he  had  sent  up-town  to  the  post- 
office.  Having  read  the  two  columns  of  local  and 
personal  gossip  arranged  under  the  heading  "  People 
You  Know,"  he  swept  his  newspaper  into  the  waste- 
basket  and  pushed  back  his  chair.  The  window 
nearest  his  desk  overlooked  the  yards  and  a  long 
line  of  shabby  day  coaches  and  battered  freight 
cars  on  one  of  the  sidings.  They  were  there  to  be 
rebuilt  or  repaired.  This  meant  a  new  lease  of  life 
to  the  shops,  which  had  never  proved  profitable. 

Oakley  had  been  with  the  Huckleberry  two 
months.  The  first  intimation  the  office  force  re- 
ceived that  the  new  man  whom  they  had  been  ex- 
pecting for  over  a  week  had  arrived  in  Antioch, 
and  was  prepared  to  take  hold,  was  when  he  walked 
into  the  office  and  quietly  introduced  himself  to 
Kerr  and  Holt.  Former  general  managers  had 
arrived  by  special  after  much  preliminary  wir- 
ing. The  manner  of  their  going  had  been  less 
spectacular.  They  one  and  all  failed,  and  Gen- 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

eral  Cornish  cut  short  the  days  of  their  pride  and 
display. 

Naturally  the  office  had  been  the  least  bit  skeptical 
concerning  Oakley  and  his  capabilities,  but  within 
a  week  a  change  was  patent  to  every  one  connected 
with  the  road :  the  trains  began  to  regard  their  sched- 
ules, and  the  slackness  and  unthrift  in  the  yards 
gave  place  to  an  ordered  prosperity.  Without  any 
apparent  effort  he  found  work  for  the  shops,  a  few 
extra  men  even  were  taken  on,  and  there  was  no 
hint  as  yet  of  half-time  for  the  summer  months. 

He  was  a  broad-shouldered,  long-limbed,  ener- 
getic young  fellow,  with  frank  blue  eyes  that  looked 
one  squarely  in  the  face.  Men  liked  him  because 
he  was  straightforward,  alert,  and  able,  with  an  in- 
definite personal  charm  that  lifted  him  out  of  the 
ordinary.  These  were  the  qualities  Cornish  had 
recognized  when  he  put  him  in  control  of  his  inter- 
ests at  Antioch,  and  Oakley,  who  enjoyed  hard  work, 
had  earned  his  salary  several  times  over  and  was 
really  doing  wonders. 

He  put  down  his  pipe,  which  was  smoked  out, 
and  glanced  at  the  clock.  "  What's  the  matter  with 
that  boy?"  he  muttered. 

The  matter  was  that  Clarence  had  concluded  to 
take  a  brief  vacation.  After  leaving  the  post-office 
he  skirted  a  vacant  lot  and  retired  behind  his  father's 
red  barn,  where  he  applied  himself  diligently  to  the 
fragment  of  a  cigarette  that  earlier  in  the  day  Mc- 
Clintock,  to  his  great  scandal,  had  discovered  him 
smoking  in  the  solitude  of  an  empty  box-car  in  the 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

yards.  The  master  mechanic,  who  had  boys  of  his 
own,  had  called  him  a  runty  little  cuss,  and  had  sent 
him  flying  up  the  tracks  with  a  volley  of  bad  words 
ringing  in  his  ears. 

When  the  cigarette  was  finished,  the  urchin  be- 
thought him  of  the  purpose  of  his  errand.  This  so 
worked  upon  his  fears  that  he  bolted  for  the  office 
with  all  the  speed  of  his  short  legs.  As  he  ran  he 
promised  himself,  emotionally,  that  "the  boss"  was 
likely  to  "skin"  him.  But  whatever  his  fears,  he 
dashed  into  Oakley's  presence,  panting  and  in  hot 
haste.  "Just  tvro  letters  for  you,  Mr.  Oakley!"  he 
gasped.  "That  was  all  there  wasl" 

He  went  over  to  the  superintendent  and  handed 
him  the  letters.  Oakley  observed  him  critically  and 
with  a  dry  smile.  For  an  instant  the  boy  hung  his 
head  sheepishly,  then  his  face  brightened. 

"It's  an  awfully  wet  day;  it's  just  sopping!" 

Oakley  waived  this  bit  of  gratuitous  information. 

"Did  you  run  all  the  way?" 

"Yep,  every  step,"  with  the  impudent  mendacity 
that  comes  of  long  practice. 

"It's  rather  curious  you  didn't  get  back  sooner." 

Clarence  looked  at  the  clock. 

"Was  I  gone  long?  It  didn't  seem  long  to  me," 
he  added,  with  a  candor  he  intended  should  disarm 
criticism. 

"Only  a  little  over  half  an  hour,  Clarence." 

The  superintendent  sniffed  suspiciously. 

"McClintock  says  he  caught  you  smoking  a  cig- 
arette to-day — how  about  it?" 

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The   Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"Cubebs,"  in  a  faint  voice. 

The  superintendent  sniffed  again  and  scrutinized 
the  boy's  hands,  which  rested  on  the  corner  of  his 
desk. 

"What's  that  on  your  fingers?" 

Clarence  considered. 

"That?  Why,  that  must  be  walnut-stains  from 
last  year.  Didn't  you  ever  get  walnut -stains  on 
your  hands  when  you  was  a  boy,  Mr.  Oakley?" 

"I  suppose  so,  but  I  don't  remember  that  they 
lasted  all  winter." 

Clarence  was  discreetly  silent.  He  felt  that  the 
chief  executive  of  the  Huckleberry  took  too  great  an 
interest  in  his  personal  habits.  Besides,  it  was  pos- 
itively painful  to  have  to  tell  lies  that  went  so  wide 
of  the  mark  as  his  had  gone. 

"I  guess  you  may  as  well  go  home  now.  But  I 
wouldn't  smoke  any  more  cigarettes,  if  I  were  you," 
gathering  up  his  letters. 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Oakley/'  with  happy  alacrity. 

"Good-night,  Clarence." 

The  door  into  the  yards  closed  with  a  bang,  and 
Clarence,  gleefully  skipping  the  mud-puddles  which 
lay  in  his  path,  hurried  his  small  person  off  through 
the  rain  and  mist. 

Oakley  glanced  at  his  letters.  One  he  saw  was 
from  General  Cornish.  It  proved  to  be  a  brief 
note,  scribbled  in  pencil  on  the  back  of  a  telegram 
blank.  The  general  would  arrive  in  Antioch  that 
night  on  the  late  train.  He  wished  Oakley  to  meet 
him. 

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The   Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

The  other  letter  was  in  an  unfamiliar  hand.  Oak- 
ley opened  it.  Like  the  first,  it  was  brief  and  to  the 
point,  but  he  did  not  at  once  grasp  its  meaning. 
This  is  what  he  read : 

"  DEAR  SIR, — I  enclose  two  newspaper  clippings  which  fully 
explain  themselves.  Your  father  is  much  interested  in  knowing 
your  whereabouts.  I  have  not  furnished  him  with  any  definite 
information  on  this  point,  as  I  have  not  felt  at  liberty  to  do  so. 
However,  I  was  able  to  tell  him  I  believed  you  were  doing  well. 
Should  you  desire  to  write  him,  I  will  gladly  undertake  to  see 
that  any  communication  you  may  send  care  of  this  office  will 
reach  him.  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"EZRA  HART." 

It  was  like  a  bolt  from  a  clear  sky.  He  drew  a 
deep,  quick  breath.  Then  he  took  up  the  newspaper 
clippings.  One  was  a  florid  column-and-a-half  ac- 
count of  a  fire  in  the  hospital  ward  of  the  Massa- 
chusetts State  prison,  and  dealt  particularly  with 
the  heroism  of  Roger  Oakley,  a  life  prisoner,  in  lead- 
ing a  rescue.  The  other  clipping,  merely  a  para- 
graph, was  of  more  recent  date.  It  announced  that 
Roger  Oakley  had  been  pardoned. 

Oakley  had  scarcely  thought  of  his  father  in  years. 
The  man  and  his  concerns — his  crime  arid  his  tragic 
atonement  —  had  passed  completely  out  of  his  life, 
but  now  he  was  free,  if  he  chose,  to  enter  it  again. 
There  was  such  suddenness  in  the  thought  that  he 
turned  sick  on  the  moment;  a  great  wave  of  self- 
pity  enveloped  him,  the  recollection  of  his  struggles 
and  his  shame — the  bitter,  helpless  shame  of  a  child 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

—  returned.  He  felt  only  resentment  towards  this 
man  whose  crime  had  blasted  his  youth,  robbing 
him  of  every  ordinary  advantage,  and  clearly  the 
end  was  not  yet. 

True,  by  degrees,  he  had  grown  away  from  the 
memory  of  it  all.  He  had  long  since  freed  himself 
of  the  fear  that  his  secret  might  be  discovered.  With 
success,  he  had  even  acquired  a  certain  complacency. 
Without  knowing  his  history,  the  good  or  the  bad 
of  it,  his  world  had  accepted  him  for  what  he  was 
really  worth.  He  was  neither  cowardly  nor  selfish. 
It  was  not  alone  the  memory  of  his  own  hardships 
that  embittered  him  and  turned  his  heart  against 
his  father.  His  mother's  face,  with  its  hunted, 
fugitive  look,  rose  up  before  him  in  protest.  He 
recalled  their  wanderings  in  search  of  some  place 
where  their  story  was  not  known  and  where  they 
could  begin  life  anew,  their  return  to  Burton,  and 
then  her  death. 

For  years  it  had  been  like  a  dream,  and  now  he 
saw  only  the  slouching  figure  of  the  old  convict, 
which  seemed  to  menace  him,  and  remembered  only 
the  evil  consequent  upon  his  crime. 

Next  he  fell  to  wondering  what  sort  of  a  man  this 
Roger  Oakley  was  who  had  seemed  so  curiously 
remote,  who  had  been  as  a  shadow  in  his  way  pre- 
ceding the  presence,  and  suddenly  he  found  his 
heart  softening  towards  him.  It  was  infinitely  pa- 
thetic to  the  young  man,  with  his  abundant  strength 
and  splendid  energ3T;  this  imprisonment  that  had 
endured  for  almost  a  quarter  of  a  century.  He  fan- 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

cied  his  father  as  broken  and  friendless,  as  dazed 
and  confused  by  his  unexpected  freedom,  with  his 
place  in  the  world  forever  lost.  After  all,  he  could 
not  sit  in  judgment,  or  avenge. 

So  far  as  he  knew  he  had  never  seen  his  father  but 
once.  First  there  had  been  a  hot,  dusty  journey  by 
stage,  then  he  had  gone  through  a  massive  iron  gate 
and  down  a  narrow  passage,  where  he  had  trotted 
by  his  mother's  side,  holding  fast  to  her  hand. 

All  this  came  back  in  a  jerk3r,  disconnected  fash- 
ion, with  wide  gaps  and  lapses  he  could  not  fill,  but 
the  impression  made  upon  his  mind  by  his  father 
had  been  lasting  and  vivid.  He  still  saw  him  as  he 
was  then,  with  the  chalky  prison  pallor  on  his  hag- 
gard face.  A  clumsily  made  man  of  tremendous 
bone  and  muscle,  who  had  spoken  with  them  through 
the  bars  of  his  cell-door,  while  his  mother  cried  softly 
behind  her  shawl.  The  boy  had  thought  of  him  as 
a  man  in  a  cage. 

He  wondered  who  Ezra  Hart  was,  for  the  name 
seemed  familiar.  At  length  he  placed  him.  He 
was  the  lawyer  who  had  defended  his  father.  He 
was  puzzled  that  Hart  knew  where  he  was;  he  had 
hoped  the  little  New  England  village  had  lost  all 
track  of  him,  but  the  fact  that  Hart  did  know  con- 
vinced him  it  would  be  quite  useless  to  try  to  keep 
his  whereabouts  a  secret  from  his  father,  even  if  he 
wished  to.  Since  Hart  knew,  there  must  be  others, 
also,  who  knew. 

He  took  up  the  newspaper  clippings  again.  By 
an  odd  coincidence  they  had  reached  him  on  the  very 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

day  the  Governor  of  Massachusetts  had  set  apart 
for  his  father's  release. 

Outside,  in  the  yards,  on  the  drenched  town,  and 
in  the  sweating  fields  beyond,  the  warm  spring  rain 
fell  and  splashed. 

It  was  a  fit  time  for  Roger  Oakley  to  leave  the  gray 
walls,  and  the  gray  garb  he  had  worn  so  long,  and  to 
re-enter  the  world  of  living  things  and  the  life  of  the 
one  person  in  all  that  world  who  had  reason  to  re- 
member him. 


CHAPTER  II 

OAKLEY  drew  down  the  top  of  his  desk  and  left 
the  office.  Before  locking  the  door,  on  which 
some  predecessor  had  caused  the  words,  "Depart- 
ment of  Transportation  and  Maintenance.  No  ad- 
mittance, except  on  business,"  to  be  stencilled  in 
black  letters,  he  called  to  McClintock,  who,  with 
Dutch  Pete,  was  still  fussing  over  the  wheezy  switch- 
engine. 

"Will  you  want  in  the  office  for  anything, Milt?" 

The  master- mechanic,  who  had  been  swearing  at 
a  rusted  nut,  got  up  from  his  knees  and,  dangling  a 
big  wrench  in  one  hand,  bawled  back :  "  No,  I  guess 
not." 

"How's  the  job  coming  on?" 

"About  finished.  Damn  that  fool  Bennett,  any- 
how! Next  time  he  runs  this  old  bird-cage  into  a 
freight,  he'll  catch  hell  from  me!" 

After  turning  the  key  on  the  Department  of  Trans- 
portation and  Maintenance,  Oakley  crossed  the 
tracks  to  the  station  and  made  briskly  off  up-town, 
with  the  wind  and  rain  blowing  in  his  face. 

He  lived  at  the  American  House,  the  best  hotel 
the  place  could  boast.  It  overlooked  the  public 
square,  a  barren  waste  an  acre  or  more  in  extent, 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

built  about  with  stores  and  offices;  where,  on  hot 
summer  Saturdays,  farmers  who  had  come  to  town 
to  trade,  hitched  their  teams  in  the  deep  shade  of 
the  great  maples  that  grew  close  to  the  curb.  Here, 
on  Decoration  Day  and  the  Fourth  of  July,  the  elo- 
quence of  the  county  assembled  and  commuted  its 
proverbial  peck  of  dirt  in  favor  of  very  fine  dust. 
Here,  too,  the  noisiest  of  brass-bands  made  hideous 
hash  of  patriotic  airs,  and  the  forty  odd  youths  con- 
stituting the  local  militia  trampled  the  shine  from 
each  other's  shoes,  while  their  captain,  who  had 
been  a  sutler's  clerk  in  the  Civil  War,  cursed  them 
for  a  lot  of  lunkheads.  And  at  least  once  in  the 
course  of  each  summer's  droning  flight  the  spot  was 
abandoned  to  the  purely  carnal  delights  of  some 
wandering  road  circus. 

In  short,  Antioch  had  its  own  life  and  interests, 
after  the  manner  of  every  other  human  ant-hill; 
and  the  Honorable  Jeb  Barrow's  latest  public  utter- 
ance, Dippy  Ellsworth's  skill  on  the  snare-drum,  or 
"Cap"  Roberts's  military  genius,  and  whether  or 
not  the  Civil  War  would  realty  have  ended  at  Don- 
elson  if  Grant  had  only  been  smart  enough  to  take 
his  advice,  were  all  matters  of  prime  importance  and 
occupied  just  as  much  time  to  weigh  properly  and 
consider  as  men's  interests  do  anywhere. 

In  Antioch,  Oakley  was  something  of  a  figure. 
He  was  the  first  manager  of  the  road  to  make  the 
town  his  permanent  headquarters,  and  the  town  was 
grateful.  It  would  have  swamped  him  with  kindly 
attention,  but  he  had  studiously  ignored  all  advances, 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

preferring  not  to  make  friends.  In  this  he  had  not 
entirely  succeeded.  1?  The  richest  man  in  the  countj^, 
Dr.  Emory,  who  was  a  good  deal  of  a  patrician,  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  him,  and  had  insisted  upon  enter- 
taining him  at  a  formal  dinner,  at  which  there  were 
present  the  Methodist  minister,  the  editor  of  the  local 
paper,  the  principal  merchant,  a  judge,  and  an  ex- 
Congressman,  who  went  to  sleep  with  the  soup  and 
only  wakened  in  season  for  the  ice-cream.  It  was 
the  most  impressive  function  Oakley  had  ever  at- 
tended, and  even  to  think  of  it  still  sent  the  cold  chills 
coursing  down  his  spine. 

That  morning  he  had  chanced  to  meet  Dr.  Emory 
on  the  street,  and  the  doctor,  who  could  always  be 
trusted  to  say  exactly  what  he  thought,  had  taken 
him  to  task  for  not  calling.  There  was  a  reason  why 
Oakley  had  not  done  so.  The  doctor's  daughter  had 
just  returned  from  the  East,  and  vague  rumors  were 
current  concerning  her  beauty  and  elegance.  Now, 
women  were  altogether  beyond  Oakley's  ken.  How- 
ever, since  some  responsive  courtesy  was  evidently 
expected  of  him,  he  determined  to  have  it  over  with 
at  once.  Imbued  with  this  idea,  he  went  to  his  room 
after  supper  to  dress.  As  he  arrayed  himself  for  the 
ordeal,  he  sought  to  recall  a  past  experience  in  line 
with  the  present.  Barring  the  recent  dinner,  his 
most  ambitious  social  experiment  had  been  a  brakes- 
men's ball  in  Denver,  years  before,  when  he  was 
conductor  on  a  freight.  He  laughed  softly  as  he 
fastened  his  tie. 

"I  wonder  what  Dr.  Emory  would  think  if  I  told 
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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

him  I'd  punched  a  fellow  at  a  dance  once  because  he 
wanted  to  take  my  girl  away  from  me."  He  re- 
called, as  pointing  his  innate  conservatism,  that  he 
had  decided  not  to  repeat  the  experiment  until  he 
achieved  a  position  where  a  glittering  social  success 
was  not  contingent  upon  his  ability  to  punch  heads. 

It  was  still  raining,  a  discouragingly  persistent 
drizzle,  when  Oakley  left  his  hotel  and  turned  from 
the  public  square  into  Main  Street.  This  Main  Street 
was  never  an  imposing  thoroughfare,  and  a  week  of 
steady  downpour  made  it  from  curb  to  curb  a  river 
of  quaking  mud.  It  was  lit  at  long  intervals  by 
flickering  gas-lamps  that  glowed  like  corpulent  fire- 
flies in  the  misty  darkness  beneath  the  dripping 
maple  -  boughs.  As  in  the  case  of  most  Western 
towns,  Antioch  had  known  dreams  of  greatness, 
dreams  which  had  not  been  realized.  It  stood  stock- 
still,  in  all  its  raw,  ugly  youth,  with  the  rigid  angu- 
larity its  founders  had  imposed  upon  it  when  they 
hacked  and  hewed  a  spot  for  it  in  the  pine-woods, 
whose  stunted  second  growth  encircled  it  on  every 
side. 

The  Emory  home  had  once  been  a  farm-house  of 
the  better  class ;  various  additions  and  improvements 
gave  it  an  air  of  solid  and  substantial  comfort  un- 
usual in  a  community  where  the  prevailing  style  of 
architecture  was  a  square  wooden  box,  built  close  to 
the  street  end  of  a  narrow  lot. 

The  doctor  himself  answered  Oakley's  ring,  and 
led  the  way  into  the  parlor,  after  relieving  him  of  his 
hat  and  umbrella. 

13 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"My  wife  you  know,  Mr.  Oakley.  This  is  my 
daughter." 

Constance  Emory  rose  from  her  seat  before  the 
wood  fire  that  smoldered  on  the  wide,  old-fashioned 
hearth,  and  gave  Oakley  her  hand.  He  saw  a  state- 
ly, fair -haired  girl,  trimly  gowned  in  an  evening 
dress  that  to  his  unsophisticated  gaze  seemed  as- 
tonishingly elaborate.  But  he  could  not  have  im- 
agined anything  more  becoming.  He  decided  that 
she  was  very  pretty.  Later  he  changed  his  mind. 
She  was  more  than  pretty. 

For  her  part,  Miss  Emory  saw  merely  a  tall  young 
fellow,  rather  good-looking  than  otherwise,  who 
was  feeling  nervously  for  his  cuffs.  Beyond  this 
there  was  not  much  to  be  said  in  his  favor,  but  she 
was  willing  to  be  amused. 

She  had  been  absent  from  Antioch  four  years. 
These  years  had  been  spent  in  the  East,  and  in  travel 
abroad  with  a  widowed  and  childless  sister  of  her 
father's.  She  was,  on  the  whole,  glad  to  be  home 
again.  As  yet  she  was  not  disturbed  by  any  thoughts 
of  the  future.  She  looked  on  the  world  with  serene 
eyes.  They  were  a  limpid  blue,  and  veiled  by  long, 
dark  lashes.  She  possessed  the  poise  and  unshaken 
self-confidence  that  comes  of  position  and  experience. 
Her  father  and  mother  were  not  so  well  satisfied  with 
the  situation;  they  already  recognized  that  it  held 
the  elements  of  a  tragedy.  In  their  desire  to  give 
her  every  opportunity  they  had  overreached  them- 
selves. She  had  outgrown  Antioch  as  surely  as 
she  had  outgrown  her  childhood,  and  it  was  as 

14 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

impossible  to  take  her  back  to  the  one  as  to  the 
other. 

The  doctor  patted  Oakley  on  the  shoulder. 

"  I  am  glad  you've  dropped  in.  I  hope,  now  you 
have  made  a  beginning,  we  shall  see  more  of  you." 

He  was  a  portly  man  of  fifty,  with  kindly  eyes 
and  an  easy,  gracious  manner.  Mrs.  Emory  was 
sedate  and  placid,  a  handsome,  well-kept  woman, 
who  administered  her  husband's  affairs  with  a 
steadiness  and  economy  that  had  made  it  possible 
for  him  to  amass  a  comfortable  fortune  from  his 
straggling  country  practice. 

Constance  soon  decided  that  Oakley  was  not  at  all 
like  the  young  men  of  Antioch  as  she  recalled  them, 
nor  was  he  like  the  men  she  had  known  while  under 
her  aunt's  tutelage — the  leisurely  idlers  who  drifted 
with  the  social  tide,  apparently  without  responsi- 
bility or  care. 

He  proved  hopelessly  dense  on  those  matters  with 
which  they  had  been  perfectly  familiar.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  pleasure  and  accomplishment,  as  she  un- 
derstood them,  had  found  no  place  in  his  life.  The 
practical  quality  in  his  mind  showed  at  every  turn 
of  the  conversation.  He  appeared  to  hunger  after 
hard  facts,  and  the  harder  these  facts  were  the  better 
he  liked  them.  But  he  offended  in  more  glaring 
ways.  He  was  too  intense,  and  his  speech  too  care- 
ful and  precise,  as  if  he  were  uncertain  as  to  his 
grammar,  as,  indeed,  he  was. 

Poor  Oakley  was  vaguely  aware  that  he  was  not 
getting  on,  and  the  strain  told.  It  slowly  dawned 

15 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

upon  him  that  he  was  not  her  sort,  that  where  he 
was  concerned,  she  was  quite  alien,  quite  foreign, 
with  interests  he  could  not  comprehend,  but  which 
gave  him  a  rankling  sense  of  inferiority. 

He  had  been  moderately  well  satisfied  with  himself, 
as  indeed  he  had  good  reason  to  be,  but  her  manner 
was  calculated  to  rob  him  of  undue  pride;  he  was 
not  accustomed  to  being  treated  with  mixed  indiffer- 
ence and  patronage.  He  asked  himself  resentfully 
how  it  happened  that  he  had  never  before  met  such 
a  girl.  She  fascinated  him.  The  charm  of  her  pres- 
ence seemed  to  suddenly  create  and  satisfy  a  love 
for  the  beautiful.  With  generous  enthusiasm  he 
set  to  work  to  be  entertaining.  Then  a  realiza- 
tion of  the  awful  mental  poverty  in  which  he  dwelt 
burst  upon  him  for  the  first  time.  He  longed  for 
some  light  and  graceful  talent  with  which  to  bridge 
the  wide  gaps  between  the  stubborn  heights  of  his 
professional  erudition. 

He  was  profoundly  versed  on  rates,  grades,  bal- 
last, motive  power,  and  rolling  stock,  but  this  solid 
information  was  of  no  avail.  He  could  on  occasion 
talk  to  a  swearing  section -boss  with  a  grievance 
and  a  brogue  in  a  way  to  make  that  man  his  friend 
for  life ;  he  also  possessed  the  happy  gift  of  inspiring 
his  subordinates  with  a  zealous  sense  of  duty,  but 
his  social  responsibilities  numbed  his  faculties  and 
left  him  a  bankrupt  for  words. 

The  others  gave  him  no  assistance.  Mrs.  Emory, 
smiling  and  good-humored,  but  silent,  bent  above 
her  sewing.  She  was  not  an  acute  person,  and  the 

16 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

situation  was  lost  upon  her,  while  the  doctor  took 
only  the  most  casual  part  in  the  conversation. 

Oakley  was  wondering  how  he  could  make  his  es- 
cape, when  the  door-bell  rang.  The  doctor  slipped 
from  the  parlor.  When  he  returned  he  was  not 
alone.  He  was  preceded  by  a  dark  young  man  of 
one  or  two  and  thirty.  This  was  Griffith  Ryder, 
the  owner  of  the  Antioch  Herald. 

"My  dear/'  said  he,  "Mr.  Ryder."  Ryder  shook 
hands  with  the  two  ladies,  and  nodded  carelessly  to 
Oakley;  then,  with  an  easy,  graceful  compliment, 
he  lounged  down  in  a  chair  at  Miss  Emory's  side. 

Constance  had  turned  from  the  strenuous  Oakley 
to  the  new-comer  with  a  sense  of  unmistakable  re- 
lief. Her  mother,  too,  brightened  visibly.  She  did 
not  entirely  approve  of  Ryder,  but  he  was  always 
entertaining  in  a  lazy,  indifferent  fashion  of  his  own. 

"I  see,  Griff,"  the  doctor  said,  "that  you  are  going 
to  support  Kenyon.  I  declare  it  shakes  my  confi- 
dence in  you."  And  he  drew  forward  his  chair. 
Like  most  Americans,  the  physician  was  something 
of  a  politician,  and,  as  is  also  true  of  most  Americans, 
not  professionally  concerned  in  the  hunt  for  office, 
this  interest  fluctuated  between  the  two  extremes  of 
party  enthusiasm  before  and  non-partisan  disgust 
after  elections. 

Ryder  smiled  faintly.  "Yes,  we  know  just  how 
much  of  a  rascal  Kenyon  is,  and  we  know  nothing 
at  all  about  the  other  fellow,  except  that  he  wants 
the  nomination,  which  is  a  bad  sign.  Suppose  he 
should  turn  out  a  greater  scamp!  Really  it's  too 
B  I7 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

much  of  a  risk/'  he  drawled,  with  an  affectation  of 
contempt. 

"  Your  politics  always  were  a  shock  to  your  friends, 
but  this  serves  to  explain  them,"  remarked  the  doc- 
tor, with  latent  combativeness.  But  Ryder  was  not 
to  be  beguiled  into  argument.  He  turned  again  to 
Miss  Emory. 

"Your  father  is  not  a  practical  politician,  or  he 
would  realize  that  it  is  only  common  thrift  to  send 
Kenyon  back,  for  I  take  it  he  has  served  his  country 
not  without  profit  to  himself;  besides,  he  is  clamor- 
ous and  persistent,  and  there  seems  no  other  way  to 
dispose  of  him.  It's  either  that  or  the  penitentiary." 

Constance  laughed  softly.  "And  so  you  think 
he  can  afford  to  be  honest  now?  What  shocking 
ethics!" 

"That  is  my  theory.  Anyhow,  I  don't  see  why 
your  father  should  wish  me  to  forego  the  mild  ex- 
citement of  assisting  to  re-elect  my  more  or  less  dis- 
reputable friend.  Antioch  has  had  very  little  to 
offer  one  until  you  came,"  he  added,  with  gentle 
deference.  Miss  Emory  accepted  the  compliment 
with  the  utmost  composure.  Once  she  had  been 
rather  nattered  by  his  attentions,  but  four  years 
make  a  great  difference.  Either  he  had  lost  in  clev- 
erness, or  she  had  gained  in  knowledge. 

He  was  a  very  tired  young  man.  At  one  time  he 
had  possessed  some  expectations  and  numerous 
pretensions.  The  expectation  had  faded  out  of  his 
life,  but  the  pretence  remained  in  the  absence  of  any 
vital  achievement.  He  was  college-bred,  and  had 

18 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

gone  in  for  literature.  From  literature  he  had  drifted 
into  journalism,  and  had  ended  in  Antioch  as  pro- 
prietor of  the  local  paper,  which  he  contrived  to 
edit  with  a  lively  irresponsibility  that  won  him  few 
friends,  though  it  did  gain  him  some  small  reputa- 
tion as  a  humorist. 

His  original  idea  had  been  that  the  management  of 
a  country  weekly  would  afford  him  opportunity  for 
the  serious  work  which  he  believed  he  could  do,  but 
he  had  not  done  this  serious  work,  and  was  not  likely 
to  do  it.  He  derived  a  fair  income  from  the  Herald, 
and  he  allowed  his  ambitions  to  sink  into  abeyance, 
in  spite  of  his  cherished  conviction  that  he  was  cut 
out  for  bigger  things.  Perhaps  he  had  wisely  de- 
cided that  his  pretensions  were  much  safer  than  ac- 
complishment, since  the  importance  of  what  a  man 
actually  does  can  generally  be  measured,  while  what 
he  might  do  admits  of  exaggerated  claims. 

Oakley  had  known  Ryder  only  since  the  occasion 
of  the  doctor's  dinner,  and  felt  that  he  could  never 
be  more  than  an  acquired  taste,  if  at  all. 

The  editor  took  the  floor,  figuratively  speaking, 
for  Miss  Emory's  presence  made  the  effort  seem 
worth  his  while.  He  promptly  relieved  Oakley  of 
the  necessity  to  do  more  than  listen,  an  act  of  charity 
for  which  the  latter  was  hardly  as  grateful  as  he 
should  have  been.  He  was  no  fool,  but  there  were 
wide  realms  of  enlightenment  where  he  was  an  abso- 
lute stranger,  so,  when  Constance  and  Ryder  came  to 
talk  of  books  and  music,  as  they  did  finally,  his  only 
refuge  was  in  silence,  and  he  went  into  a  sort  of  in- 

19 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

tellectual  quarantine.  His  reading  had  been  strict- 
ly limited  to  scientific  works,  and  to  the  half-dozen 
trade  and  technical  journals  to  which  he  subscribed, 
and  from  which  he  drew  the  larger  part  of  his  mental 
sustenance.  As  for  music,  he  was  familiar  with  the 
airs  from  the  latest  popular  operas,  but  the  master- 
pieces were  utterly  unknown,  except  such  as  had 
been  brought  to  his  notice  by  having  sleeping-cars 
named  in  their  honor,  a  practice  he  considered  very 
complimentary,  and  possessing  value  as  a  strong 
commercial  endorsement. 

He  amused  himself  trying  to  recall  whether  it 
was  the  "  Tannhauser  "  or  the  "  Lohengrin  "  he  had 
ridden  on  the  last  time  he  was  East.  He  was  dis- 
tinctly shocked,  however,  by  "Gotterdammerung," 
which  was  wholly  unexpected.  It  suggested  such 
hard  swearing,  or  Dutch  Pete's  untrammelled  ob- 
servations in  the  yards  when  he  had  caught  an 
urchin  stealing  scrap-iron — a  recognized  source  of 
revenue  to  the  youth  of  Antioch.  But  he  felt  more 
and  more  lonely  and  aloof  as  the  evening  wore  on. 
It  was  something  of  the  same  feeling  he  had  known 
as  a  boy,  after  his  mother's  death,  when,  homeless 
and  friendless  at  night,  he  had  paused  to  glance  in 
through  uncurtained  windows,  with  a  dumb,  wordless 
longing  for  the  warmth  and  comfort  he  saw  there. 

It  was  a  relief  when  the  doctor  took  him  into  the 
library  to  examine  specimens  of  iron -ore  he  had 
picked  up  west  of  Antioch,  where  there  were  unde- 
veloped mineral  lands  for  which  he  was  trying  to 
secure  capital.  This  was  a  matter  Oakley  was  in- 

20 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

terested  in,  since  it  might  mean  business  for  the 
road.  He  promptly  forgot  about  Miss  Emory  and 
the  objectionable  Ryder,  and  in  ten  minutes  gave 
the  doctor  a  better  comprehension  of  the  mode  of  pro- 
cedure necessary  to  success  than  that  gentleman 
had  been  able  to  learn  in  ten  years  of  unfruitful  at- 
tempting. He  also  supplied  him  with  a  few  definite 
facts  and  figures  in  lieu  of  the  multitude  of  glitter- 
ing generalities  on  which  he  had  been  pinning  his 
faith  as  a  means  of  getting  money  into  the  scheme. 

When,  at  last,  they  returned  to  the  parlor,  they 
found  another  caller  had  arrived  during  their  ab- 
sence, a  small,  shabbily  dressed  man,  with  a  high, 
bald  head  and  weak,  near-sighted  eyes.  It  was 
Turner  Joyce.  Oakley  knew  him  just  as  he  was 
beginning  to  know  every  other  man,  woman,  and 
child  in  the  town. 

Joyce  rose  hastily,  or  rather  stumbled  to  his  feet, 
as  the  doctor  and  Oakley  entered  the  room. 

"I  told  you  I  was  coming  up,  doctor/'  he  said, 
apologetically.  "Miss  Constance  has  been  very 
kind.  She  has  been  telling  me  of  the  galleries  and 
studios.  What  a  glorious  experience  1" 

A  cynical  smile  parted  Ryder's  thin  lips. 

"Mr.  Joyce  feels  the  isolation  of  his  art  here." 

The  little  man  blinked  doubtfully  at  the  speaker, 
and  then  said,  with  a  gentle,  deprecatory  gesture, 
"I  don't  call  it  art." 

"You  are  far  too  modest.  I  have  heard  my  fore- 
man speak  in  the  most  complimentary  terms  of  the 
portrait  you  did  of  his  wife.  He  was  especially 

21 


The  Manager   of  the  B.  &  A. 

pleased  with  the  frame.  You  must  know,  Miss 
Constance,  that  Mr.  Joyce  usually  furnishes  the 
frames,  and  his  pictures  go  home  ready  to  the  wire 
to  hang  on  the  wall." 

Mr.  Joyce  continued  to  blink  doubtfully  at  Ryder. 
He  scarcely  knew  how  to  take  the  allusion  to  the 
frames.  It  was  a  sore  point  with  him. 

Constance  turned  with  a  displeased  air  from  Ryder 
to  the  little  artist.  There  was  a  faint,  wistful  smile 
on  her  lips.  He  was  a  rather  pathetic  figure  to  her, 
and  she  could  not  understand  how  Ryder  dared  or 
had  the  heart  to  make  fun. 

"  I  shall  enjoy  seeing  all  that  you  have  done,  Mr. 
Joyce;  and  of  course  I  wish  to  see  Ruth.  Why 
didn't  she  come  with  you  to-night?" 

"  Her  cousin,  Lou  Bentick's  wife,  is  dead,  and  she 
has  been  over  at  his  house  all  day.  She  was  quite 
worn  out,  but  she  sent  you  her  love." 

Ryder  glanced  again  at  Miss  Emory,  and  said, 
with  hard  cynicism :  "  The  notice  will  appear  in  Sat- 
urday's Herald,  with  a  tribute  from  her  pastor.  I 
never  refuse  his  verse.  It  invariably  contains  some 
scathing  comment  on  the  uncertainty  of  the  Baptist 
faith  as  a  means  of  salvation." 

But  this  was  wasted  on  Joyce.  Ryder  rose  with  a 
sigh. 

"Well,  we  toilers  must  think  of  the  morrow." 

Oakley  accepted  this  as  a  sign  that  it  was  time  to 
g°-  Joyce,  too,  stumbled  across  the  room  to  the 
door,  and  the  three  men  took  their  leave  together. 
As  they  stood  on  the  steps,  the  doctor  said,  cordially, 

22 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"I  hope  you  will  both  come  again  soon;  and  you, 
too,  Turner/'  he  added,  kindly. 

Ryder  moved  off  quickly  with  Oakley.  Joyce 
would  have  dropped  behind,  but  the  latter  made 
room  for  him  at  his  side.  No  one  spoke  until  Ryder, 
halting  on  a  street  corner,  said,  "  Sorry,  but  it's  out 
of  my  way  to  go  any  farther  unless  you'll  play  a 
game  of  billiards  with  me  at  the  hotel,  Oakley." 

"  Thanks,"  curtly.     "  I  don't  play  billiards." 

"No?  Well,  they  are  a  waste  of  time,  I  suppose. 
Good-night."  And  he  turned  down  the  side  street, 
whistling  softly. 

"A  very  extraordinary  young  man,"  murmured 
Joyce,  rubbing  the  tip  of  his  nose  meditatively  with 
a  painty  forefinger.  "  And  with  quite  an  extraordi- 
nary opinion  of  himself." 

A  sudden  feeling  of  friendliness  prompted  Oakley 
to  tuck  his  hand  through  the  little  artist's  arm. 
"How  is  Bentick  bearing  the  loss  of  his  wife?"  he 
asked.  "You  said  she  was  your  cousin." 

"No,  not  mine.  My  wife's.  Poor  fellow!  he 
feels  it  keenly.  They  had  not  been  married  long, 
you  know." 

The  rain  was  falling  in  a  steady  downpour.  They 
had  reached  Turner  Joyce's  gate,  and  paused. 

"Won't  you  come  in  and  wait  until  it  moderates, 
Mr.  Oakley?" 

Oakley  yielded  an  assent,  and  followed  him 
through  the  gate  and  around  the  house. 


CHAPTER  III 

nnHERE  were  three  people  in  the  kitchen,  the 
1  principal  living  room  of  the  Joyce  home  — 
Christopher  Berry,  the  undertaker;  Jeffy,  the  local 
outcast,  a  wretched  ruin  of  a  man;  and  Turner 
Joyce's  wife,  Ruth. 

Jeffy  was  seated  at  a  table,  eating.  He  was  a 
cousin  of  the  Benticks,  and  Mrs.  Joyce  had  fur- 
nished him  with  a  complete  outfit  from  her  husband's 
slender  wardrobe  for  the  funeral  on  the  morrow. 

Oakley  had  never  known  him  to  be  so  well  or  so 
wonderfully  dressed,  and  he  had  seen  him  in  a  num- 
ber of  surprising  costumes.  His  black  trousers 
barely  reached  the  tops  of  his  shoes,  while  the  sleeves 
of  his  shiny  Prince  Albert  stopped  an  inch  or  more 
above  his  wrists;  he  furthermore  appeared  to  be  in 
imminent  danger  of  strangulation,  such  was  the 
height  and  tightness  of  his  collar.  The  thumb 
and  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  were  gone,  the  re- 
sult of  an  accident  at  a  Fourth  of  July  celebration, 
where,  at  the  instigation  of  Mr.  Gid  Runyon — a 
gentleman  possessing  a  lively  turn  of  mind  and 
gifted  with  a  keen  sense  of  humor — he  had  under- 
taken to  hold  a  giant  fire-cracker  while  it  exploded, 
the  inducement  being  a  quart  of  whiskey,  gener- 

24 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

ously  donated  for  the  occasion  by  Mr.  Runyon  him- 
self. 

Mrs.  Joyce  had  charged  herself  with  Jeffy's  care. 
She  was  fearful  that  he  might  escape  and  sell  his 
clothes  before  the  funeral.  She  knew  they  would  go 
immediately  after,  but  then  he  would  no  longer  be 
in  demand  as  a  mourner. 

As  for  Jeffy,  he  was  feeling  the  importance  of  his 
position.  With  a  fine  sense  of  what  was  expected 
from  him  as  a  near  relative  he  had  spent  the  day  in 
the  stricken  home:  its  most  picturesque  figure, 
seated  bolt  upright  in  the  parlor,  a  spotless  cotton 
handkerchief  in  his  hand,  and  breathing  an  air  of 
chastened  sorrow. 

He  had  exchanged  mournful  greetings  with  the 
friends  of  the  family,  and  was  conscious  that  he 
had  acquitted  himself  to  the  admiration  of  all.  The 
Swede  "  help/'  who  was  new  to  Antioch,  had  thought 
him  a  person  of  the  first  distinction,  so  great  was  the 
curiosity  merely  to  see  him. 

Christopher  Berry  was  a  little,  dried-up  man  of 
fifty,  whose  name  was  chance,  but  whose  profession 
was  choice.  He  was  his  own  best  indorsement,  for 
he  was  sere  and  yellow,  and  gave  out  a  faint,  dry  per- 
fume as  of  drugs,  or  tuberoses.  "  Well,  Mrs.  Joyce," 
he  was  saying,  as  Oakley  and  the  little  artist  en- 
tered the  room,  "  I  guess  there  ain't  nothing  else  to 
settle.  Don't  take  it  so  to  heart ;  there  are  grand  possi- 
bilities in  death,  even  if  we  can't  always  realize  them, 
and  we  got  a  perfect  body.  I  can't  remember  when 
I  seen  death  so  majestic,  and  I  may  say  — ca'm." 

25 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

Mrs.  Joyce,  who  was  crying,  dried  her  eyes  on  the 
corner  of  her  apron. 

"  Wasn't  it  sad  about  Smith  Roberts's  wifel  And 
with  all  those  children!  Dear,  dear!  It's  been 
such  a  sickly  spring!" 

The  undertaker's  face  assumed  an  expression  of 
even  deeper  gloom  than  was  habitual  to  it.  He 
coughed  dryly  and  decorously  behind  his  hand. 

"They  called  in  the  other  undertaker.  I  won't 
say  I  didn't  feel  it,  Mrs.  Joyce,  for  I  did.  I'd  had 
the  family  trade,  one  might  say,  always.  There 
was  her  father,  his  mother,  two  of  her  brothers,  and 
the  twins.  You  recollect  the  two  twins,  Mrs.  Joyce, 
typhoid  —  in  one  day,"  with  as  near  an  approach 
to  enthusiasm  as  he  ever  allowed  himself. 
C  "Mrs.  Poppleton  told  me  over  at  Lou's  that  it  was 
about  the  pleasantest  funeral  she'd  ever  been  to, 
and  it's  durn  few  she's  missed,  I'm  telling  you!" 
remarked  the  outcast,  hoarsely.  He  usually  slept 
at  the  gas-house  in  the  winter  on  a  convenient  pile 
of  hot  cinders,  and  was  troubled  with  a  bronchial 
affection.  "She  said  she'd  never  seen  so  many 
flowers.  Some  of  Roberts's  folks  sent  'em  here  all 
the  ways  from  Chicago.  Say!  that  didn't  cost — 
oh  no!  I  just  wisht  I'd  the  money.  It'd  do  me 
for  a  spell." 

"Well,  they  may  have  had  finer  flowers  than  we 
got,  but  the  floral  offerings  weren't  much  when  the 
twins  passed  away.  I  remember  thinking  then  that 
was  a  time  for  display,  if  one  wanted  display.  Twins, 
you  know — typhoid,  too,  and  in  one  day!"  He 

26 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

coughed  dryly  again  behind  his  hand.  "I  wouldn't 
worry,  Mrs.  Joyce.  Their  body  didn't  compare 
with  our  body,  and  the  body's  the  main  thing,  after 
all."  With  which  professional  view  of  the  case  he 
took  himself  out  into  the  night. 

The  outcast  gave  way  to  a  burst  of  hoarse,  throaty 
mirth.  "It  just  makes  Chris  Berry  sick  to  think 
there's  any  other  undertakers,  but  he  knows  his 
business;  I'll  say  that  for  him  any  time." 

He  turned  aggressively  on  Joyce.  "Did  you  get 
me  them  black  gloves?  Now,  don't  give  me  no  fairy 
tales,  for  I  know  durn  well  from  your  looks  you  didn't." 

"  I'll  get  them  for  you  the  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing, Jeffy." 

Jeffy  brandished  his  fork  angrily  in  the  air. 

"  I  never  seen  such  a  slip  -  shod  way  of  doing 
things.  I'd  like  to  know  what  sort  of  a  funeral 
it's  going  to  be  if  I  don't  get  them  black  gloves. 
It'll  be  a  failure.  Yes,  sir,  the  durndest  sort  of  a 
failure!  All  the  Chris  Berrys  in  the  world  can't 
save  it.  I  declare  I  don't  see  why  I  got  to  have  all 
this  ornery  worry.  It  ain't  my  funeral!" 

"Hush,  Jeffy!"  said  Mrs.  Joyce.  "You  mustn't 
take  on  so." 

"Why  don't  he  get  me  them  gloves?"  And  he 
glared  fiercely  at  the  meek  figure  of  the  little  artist. 
Then  suddenly  he  subsided.  "Reach  me  the  pie, 
Ruthy." 

Mrs.  Joyce  turned  nervously  to  her  husband. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  show  Mr.  Oakley  your  pict- 
ures, Turner?" 

2? 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"  Would  you  care  to  see  them?"  with  some  trepida- 
tion. 

"If  you  will  let  me/'  with  a  grave  courtesy  that 
was  instinctive. 

Joyce  took  a  lamp  from  the  mantel.  "You  will 
come,  too,  Ruth?"  he  said.  His  wife  was  divided 
between  her  sense  of  responsibility  and  her  desires. 
She  nodded  helplessly  towards  the  outcast,  where  he 
grovelled  noisily  over  his  food. 

"Jeffy  will  stay  here  until  we  come  back,  won't 
you,  Jeffy?"  ventured  Joyce,  insinuatingly. 

"Sure  I  will.  There  isn't  anything  to  take  me 
out,  unless  it's  them  black  gloves." 

Mrs.  Joyce  led  the  way  into  the  hall.  "I  am  so 
afraid  when  he's  out  of  my  sight,"  she  explained  to 
Oakley.  "We've  had  such  trouble  in  getting  him 
put  to  rights.  I  couldn't  go  through  it  again.  He's 
so  trying." 

The  parlor  had  been  fitted  up  as  a  studio.  There 
were  cheap  draperies  on  the  walls,  and  numerous 
pictures  and  sketches.  In  one  corner  was  a  shelf  of 
books,  with  Somebody's  Lives  of  the  Painters  osten- 
tatiously displayed.  Standing  on  the  floor,  their 
faces  turned  in,  were  three  or  four  unfinished  can- 
vases. There  was  also  a  miscellaneous  litter  about 
the  room,  composed  of  Indian  relics  and  petrified 
wood. 

It  was  popularly  supposed  that  an  artist  naturally 
took  an  interest  in  curios  of  this  sort,  his  life  being 
devoted  to  an  impractical  search  after  the  beautiful, 
and  the  farmer  who  ploughed  up  a  petrified  raiL  or 

28 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

discovered  an  Indian  hand-mill,  carted  it  in  to  poor 
Joyce,  who  was  too  tender-hearted  to  rebel ;  conse- 
quently he  had  been  the  recipient  of  several  tons  of 
broken  rock,  and  would  have  been  swamped  by  the 
accumulation,  had  not  Mrs.  Joyce  from  time  to  time 
conveyed  these  offerings  to  the  back  yard. 

Joyce  held  the  lamp,  so  Oakley  might  have  a  bet- 
ter view  of  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  like  to  see  my  earlier  paintings 
first.  There  1  Is  the  light  good?  That  was  Mrs. 
Joyce  just  after  our  marriage." 

Oakley  saw  a  plump  young  lady,  with  her  hair 
elaborately  banged  and  a  large  bouquet  in  her  hand. 
The  background  was  a  landscape,  with  a  ruined 
Greek  temple  in  the  distance.  "Here  she  is  a  year 
later;  and  here  she  is  again,  and  over  there  in  the 
corner  above  my  easel." 

He  swept  the  lamp  back  to  the  first  picture.  "  She 
hasn't  changed  much,  has  she?" 

Oakley  was  no  critic,  yet  he  realized  that  the  little 
artist's  work  was  painfully  literal  and  exact,  but 
then  he  had  a  sneaking  idea  that  a  good  photograph 
was  more  satisfactory  than  an  oil  painting,  anyhow. 

What  he  could  comprehend  and  appreciate,  how- 
ever, was  Mrs.  Joyce's  attitude  towards  her  hus- 
band's masterpieces.  She  was  wholly  and  patheti- 
cally reverent.  It  was  the  sublime,  unshaken  faith 
and  approval  that  marriage  sometimes  wins  for  a  man. 

"I  am  so  sorry  the  light  isn't  any  better.  Mr. 
Oakley  must  come  in  in  the  afternoon,"  she  said, 
anxiously. 

29 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  seen  some  of  the  best  exam- 
ples of  the  modern  painters/'  said  Joyce,  with  a 
tinge  of  wistful  envy  in  his  tones.  "You  know  I 
never  have.  I  haven't  been  fifty  miles  from  Antioch 
in  my  life." 

Oakley  was  ashamed  to  admit  that  the  modern 
painters  were  the  least  of  his  cares,  so  he  said  nothing. 

"  That's  just  like  Mr.  Joyce.  He  is  always  doubt- 
ing his  ability,  and  every  one  says  he  gets  wonder- 
ful likenesses." 

"I  guess,"  said  Oakley,  awkwardly,  inspired  by 
a  feeling  of  large  humanity,  "  I  guess  you'll  have  to 
be  my  guest  when  I  go  East  this  fall.  You  know  I 
can  always  manage  transportation,"  he  added, 
hastily. 

"Oh,  that  would  be  lovely!"  cried  Mrs.  Joyce, 
in  an  ecstasy  of  happiness  at  the  mere  thought. 
"Could  you?" 

Joyce,  with  a  rather  unsteady  hand,  placed  the 
lamp  on  the  centre-table  and  gazed  at  his  new  friend 
with  a  gratitude  that  went  beyond  words. 

Oakley  recognized  that  in  a  small  way  he  was 
committed  as  a  patron  of  the  arts,  but  he  determined 
to  improve  upon  his  original  offer,  and  send  Mrs. 
Joyce  with  her  husband.  She  would  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  his  pleasure  as  no  one  else  could. 

"Can't  I  see  more  of  your  work?"  he  asked,  anx- 
ious to  avoid  any  expression  of  gratitude. 

"  I  wish  you'd  show  Mr.  Oakley  what  you  are  do- 
ing now,  Turner.  He  may  give  you  some  valuable 
criticisms." 

30 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

For,  by  that  unique,  intuitive  process  of  reasoning 
peculiar  to  women,  she  had  decided  that  Oakley's 
judgment  must  be  as  remarkable  as  his  generosity. 

His  words  roused  Joyce,  who  had  stood  all  this 
while  with  misty  eyes  blinking  at  Oakley.  He 
turned  and  look  a  fresh  canvas  from  among  those 
leaning  against  the  wall  and  rested  it  on  the  easel. 
"This  is  a  portrait  I'm  doing  of  Jared  Thome's 
daughter.  I  haven't  painted  in  the  eyes  yet.  That's 
a  point  they  can't  agree  upon.  You  see,  there's  a 
slight  cast — " 

"She's  cross-eyed,  Turner,"  interjected  Mrs. 
Joyce,  positively. 

"Jared  wants  them  the  way  they'll  be  after  she's 
been  to  Chicago  to  be  operated  on,  and  his  wife  wants 
them  as  they  are  now.  They  are  to  settle  it  between 
them  before  she  comes  for  the  final  sitting  on  Satur- 
day." 

"That  is  a  complication,"  observed  Oakley,  but 
he  did  not  laugh.  It  was  not  that  he  lacked  a  sense 
of  humor.  It  was  that  he  was  more  impressed  by 
something  else. 

The  little  artist  blinked  affectionately  at  his  work. 

"Yes,  it's  going  to  be  a  good  likeness,  quite  as 
good  as  any  I  ever  got.  I  was  lucky  in  my  flesh 
tints  there  on  the  cheek,"  he  added,  tilting  his  head 
critically  on  one  side. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Joyce's  work?"  asked 
Mrs.  Joyce,  bent  on  committing  their  visitor  to  an 
opinion. 

"  It  is  very  good,  indeed,  and  perhaps  he  is  doing 
31 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

a  greater  service  in  educating  us  here  at  Antioch 
than  if  he  had  made  a  name  for  himself  abroad. 
Perhaps,  too,  he'll  be  remembered  just  as  long." 

"Do  you  really  think  so,  Mr.  Oakley?"  said  the 
little  artist,  delighted.  "It  may  sound  egotistical, 
but  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  myself — that 
these  portraits  of  mine,  bad  as  I  know  they  must 
be,  give  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  and  happiness  to 
their  owners,  and  it's  a  great  pleasure  for  me  to  do 
them,  and  we  don't  get  much  beyond  that  in  this 
world,  do  we?" 


CHAPTER  IV 

OAKLEY  took  the  satchel  from  General  Cor- 
nish's hand  as  the  latter  stepped  from  his  pri- 
vate car. 

"You  got  my  note,  I  see/'  he  said.  "I  think  I'll 
go  to  the  hotel  for  the  rest  of  the  night." 

He  glanced  back  over  his  shoulder,  as  he  turned 
with  Dan  towards  the  bus  which  was  waiting  for 
them  at  the  end  of  the  platform. 

"I  guess  no  one  else  got  off  here.  It's  not  much 
of  a  railroad  centre." 

"No,"  agreed  Oakley,  impartially;  "there  are 
towns  where  the  traffic  is  heavier." 

Arrived  at  the  hotel,  Oakley  led  the  way  up-stairs 
to  the  general's  room.  It  adjoined  his  own.  Cor- 
nish paused  on  the  threshold  until  he  had  lighted 
the  gas. 

"Light  the  other  burner,  will  you?"  he  requested. 
"There,  thanks,  that's  better." 

He  was  a  portly  man  of  sixty,  with  a  large  head 
and  heavy  face.  His  father  had  been  a  Vermont 
farmer,  a  man  of  position  and  means,  according 
to  the  easy  standard  of  his  times.  When  the  Civil 
War  broke  out,  young  Cornish,  who  was  just  com- 
mencing the  practice  of  the  law.  had  enlisted  as 
C  33 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

a  private  in  one  of  the  first  regiments  raised  by  his 
State.  Prior  to  this  he  had  overflowed  with  fervid 
oratory,  and  had  tried  hard  to  look  like  Daniel  Web- 
ster, but  a  skirmish  or  two  opened  his  eyes  to  the 
fact  that  the  waging  of  war  was  a  sober  business, 
and  the  polishing  off  of  his  sentences  not  nearly  as 
important  as  the  polishing  off  of  the  enemy.  He 
was  still  willing  to  die  for  the  Union,  if  there  was 
need  of  it,  but  while  his  life  was  spared  it  was  well  to 
get  on.  The  numerical  importance  of  number  one 
was  a  belief  too  firmly  implanted  in  his  nature  to 
be  overthrown  by  any  patriotic  aberration. 

His  own  merits,  which  he  was  among  the  first  to 
recognize,  and  the  solid  backing  his  father  was  able 
to  give,  won  him  promotion.  He  had  risen  to  the 
command  of  a  regiment,  and  when  the  war  ended 
was  brevetted  a  brigadier-general  of  volunteers,  along 
with  a  score  of  other  anxious  warriors  who  wished  to 
carry  the  title  of  general  back  into  civil  life,  for  he 
was  an  amiable  sort  of  a  Shylock,  who  seldom  over- 
looked his  pound  of  flesh,  and  he  usually  got  all,  and 
a  little  more,  than  was  coming  to  him. 

After  the  war  he  married  and  went  West,  where 
he  resumed  the  practice  of  his  profession,  but  he  soon 
abandoned  it  for  a  commercial  career.  It  was  not 
long  until  he  was  ranked  as  one  of  the  rich  men  of 
his  State.  Then  he  turned  his  attention  to  politics. 
He  was  twice  elected  to  Congress,  and  served  one 
term  as  governor.  One  of  his  daughters  had  mar- 
ried  an  Italian  prince,  a  meek,  prosaic  little  creature, 
exactly  five  feet  three  inches  tall;  another  was  en- 

34 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

gaged  to  an  English  earl,  whose  debts  were  a  re- 
markable achievement  for  so  young  a  man.  His  wife 
now  divided  her  time  between  Paris  and  London. 
She  didn't  think  much  of  New  York,  which  had 
thought  even  less  of  her.  He  managed  to  see  her 
once  or  twice  a  year.  Any  oftener  would  have  been 
superfluous.  But  it  interested  him  to  read  of  her  in 
the  papers,  and  to  feel  a  sense  of  proprietorship  for 
this  woman,  who  was  spending  his  money  and  car- 
rying his  name  into  the  centres  of  elegance  and 
fashion.  Personally  he  disliked  fashion,  and  was 
rather  shy  of  elegance. 

There  were  moments,  however,  when  he  felt  his 
life  to  be  wholly  unsatisfactory.  He  derived  very 
little  pleasure  from  all  the  luxury  that  had  accumu- 
lated about  him,  and  which  he  accepted  with  a  curi- 
ous placid  indifference.  He  would  have  liked  the  af- 
fection of  his  children,  to  have  had  them  at  home, 
and  there  was  a  remote  period  in  his  past  when  his 
wife  had  inspired  him  with  a  sentiment  at  which  he 
could  only  wonder.  He  held  it  against  her  that  she 
had  not  understood. 

He  lurched  down  solidly  into  the  chair  Oakley 
placed  for  him.  "  I  hope  you  are  comfortable  here/' 
he  said,  kindly. 

"Oh  yes."     He  still  stood. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Cornish.  "I  don't,  as  a  rule, 
believe  in  staying  up  after  midnight  to  talk  business, 
but  I  must  start  East  to-morrow." 

He  slipped  out  of  his  chair  and  began  to  pace  the 
floor,  with  his  hands  thrust  deep  in  his  trousers- 

35 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

pockets.  "I  want  to  talk  over  the  situation  here. 
I  don't  see  that  the  road  is  ever  going  to  make  a  dol- 
lar. I've  an  opportunity  to  sell  it  to  the  M.  &  W. 
Of  course  this  is  extremely  confidential.  It  must 
not  go  any  further.  I  am  told  they  will  discontinue 
it  beyond  this  point,  and  of  course  they  will  either 
move  the  shops  away  or  close  them."  He  paused 
in  his  rapid  walk.  "It's  too  bad  it  never  paid.  It 
was  the  first  thing  I  did  when  I  came  West.  I  thought 
it  a  pretty  big  thing  then.  I  have  always  hoped  it 
would  justify  my  judgment,  and  it  promised  to  for  a 
while  until  the  lumber  interests  played  out.  Now, 
what  do  you  advise,  Oakley?  I  want  to  get  your 
ideas.  You  understand,  if  I  sell  I  won't  lose  much. 
The  price  offered  will  just  about  meet  the  mortgage 
I  hold,  but  I  guess  the  stockholders  will  come  out  at 
the  little  end  of  the  horn." 

Oakley  understood  exactly  what  was  ahead  of  the 
stockholders  if  the  road  changed  hands.  Perhaps 
his  face  showed  that  he  was  thinking  of  this,  for  the 
general  observed,  charitably: 

"It's  unfortunate,  but  you  can't  mix  sentiment 
in  a  transaction  of  this  sort.  I'd  like  to  see  them  all 
get  their  money  back,  and  more,  too." 

His  mental  attitude  towards  the  world  was  one  of 
generous  liberality,  but  he  had  such  excellent  con- 
trol over  his  impulses  that,  while  he  always  seemed 
about  to  embark  in  some  large  philanthropy,  he  had 
never  been  known  to  take  even  the  first  step  in  that 
direction.  In  short,  he  was  hard  and  unemotional, 
but  with  a  deceptive,  unswerving  kindliness  of  man- 

36 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

ner,  which,  while  it  had  probably  never  involved  a 
dollar  of  his  riches,  had  at  divers  times  cost  the  un- 
wary and  the  indiscreet  much  money. 

No  man  presided  at  the  board  meetings  of  a  char- 
ity with  an  air  of  larger  benevolence,  and  no  man 
drove  closer  or  more  conscienceless  bargains.  His 
friends  knew  better  than  to  trust  him — a  precaution 
they  observed  in  common  with  his  enemies. 

"  I  am  sure  the  road  could  be  put  on  a  paying  ba- 
sis," said  Oakley.  "  Certain  quite  possible  economies 
would  do  that.  Of  course  we  can't  create  business, 
there  is  just  so  much  of  it,  and  we  get  it  all  as  it  is. 
But  the  shops  might  be  made  very  profitable.  I 
have  secured  a  good  deal  of  work  for  them,  and 
I  shall  secure  more.  I  had  intended  to  propose  a 
number  of  reforms,  but  if  you  are  going  to  sell, 
why,  there's  no  use  of  going  into  the  matter — "  he 
paused. 

The  general  meditated  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

"  I'd  hate  to  sacrifice  my  interests  if  I  thought  you 
could  even  make  the  road  pay  expenses.  Now,  just 
what  do  you  intend  to  do?" 

"I'll  get  my  order-book  and  show  you  what's  been 
done  for  the  shops,"  said  Oakley,  rising  with  alac- 
rity. "  I  have  figured  out  the  changes,  too,  and  you 
can  see  at  a  glance  just  what  I  propose  doing." 

The  road  and  the  shops  employed  some  five  hun- 
dred men,  most  of  whom  had  their  homes  in  Antioch. 
Oakley  knew  that  if  the  property  was  sold  it  would 
practically  wipe  the  town  out  of  existence.  The 
situation  was  full  of  interest  for  him.  If  Cornish 

37 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

approved,  and  told  him  to  go  ahead  with  his  reforms, 
it  would  be  an  opportunity  such  as  he  had  never 
known. 

He  went  into  his  own  room,  which  opened  off 
Cornish's,  and  got  his  order-book  and  table  of 
figures,  which  he  had  carried  up  from  the  office  that 
afternoon. 

They  lay  on  the  stand  with  a  pile  of  trade  journals. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  viewed  these  latter 
with  an  unfriendly  eye.  He  thought  of  Constance 
Emory,  and  realized  that  he  should  never  again  read 
and  digest  the  annual  report  of  the  Joint  Traffic 
Managers'  Association  with  the  same  sense  of  in- 
tellectual fulness  it  had  hitherto  given  him.  No, 
clearly,  that  was  a  pleasure  he  had  outgrown. 

He  had  taken  a  great  deal  of  pains  with  his  fig- 
ures, and  they  seemed  to  satisfy  Cornish  that  the 
road,  if  properly  managed,  was  not  such  a  hopeless 
proposition,  after  all.  Something  might  be  done 
with  it. 

Oakley  rose  in  his  good  esteem ;  he  had  liked  him, 
and  he  was  justifying  his  good  opinion.  He  beamed 
benevolently  on  the  young  man,  and  thawed  out  of 
his  habitual  reserve  into  a  genial,  ponderous  frank- 
ness. 

"  You  have  done  well,"  he  said,  glancing  through 
the  order-book  with  evident  satisfaction. 

"Of  course,"  explained  Oakley,  "I  am  going  to 
make  a  cut  in  wages  this  spring,  if  you  agree  to  it, 
but  I  haven't  the  figures  for  this  yet."  The  general 
nodded.  He  approved  of  cuts  on  principle. 

38 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"That's  always  a  wise  move/'  he  said.  "Will 
they  stand  it?" 

"They'll  have  to."  And  Oakley  laughed  rather 
nervously.  He  appreciated  that  his  reforms  were 
likely  to  make  him  very  unpopular  in  Antioch. 
"  They  shouldn't  object.  If  the  road  changes  hands 
it  will  kill  their  town." 

"I  suppose  so/'  agreed  Cornish,  indifferently. 

"  And  half  a  loaf  is  lots  better  than  no  loaf/'  added 
Oakley.  Again  the  general  nodded  his  approval. 
That  was  the  very  pith  and  Gospel  of  his  financial 
code,  and  he  held  it  as  greatly  to  his  own  credit  that 
he  had  always  been  perfectly  willing  to  offer  half- 
loaves. 

"What  sort  of  shape  is  the  shop  in?"  he  asked, 
after  a  moment's  silence. 

"Very  good  on  the  whole." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  I  spent  over  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars  on  the  plant  originally." 

"Of  course,  the  equipment  can  hardly  be  called 
modern,  but  it  will  do  for  the  sort  of  work  for  which  I 
am  bidding,"  Oakley  explained. 

"  Well,  it  will  be  an  interesting  problem  for  a  young 
man,  Oakley.  If  you  pull  the  property  up  it  will  be 
greatly  to  your  credit.  I  was  going  to  offer  you  an- 
other position,  but  we  will  let  that  go  over  for  the 
present.  I  am  very  much  pleased,  though,  with  all 
you  have  done,  very  much  pleased,  indeed.  I  go 
abroad  in  about  two  weeks.  My  youngest  daugh- 
ter is  to  be  married  in  London  to  the  Earl  of  Min- 
chester."  The  title  rolled  glibly  from  the  great 

39 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

man's  lips.  "So  you'll  have  the  fight,  if  it  is  a 
fight,  all  to  yourself.  I'll  see  that  Hollo  way  does 
what  you  say.  He's  the  only  one  you'll  have  to 
look  to  in  my  absence,  but  you  won't  be  able  to 
count  on  him  for  anything ;  he  gets  limp  in  a  crisis. 
Just  don't  make  the  mistake  of  asking  his  advice." 

"I'd  rather  have  no  advice,"  interrupted  Dan, 
hastily,  "unless  it's  yours,"  he  added. 

"I'll  see  that  you  are  not  bothered.  You  are 
the  sort  of  fellow  who  will  do  better  with  a 
free  hand,  and  that  is  what  I  intend  you  shall 
have." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Oakley,  his  heart  warming 
with  the  other's  praise. 

"  I  shall  be  back  in  three  months,  and  then,  if  your 
schemes  have  worked  out  at  all  as  we  expect,  why, 
we  can  consider  putting  the  property  in  better  shape." 
• — A  part  of  Oakley's  plan. — "  As  you  say,  it's  gone 
down  so  there  won't  be  much  but  the  right  of  way 
presently." 

"I  hope  that  eventually  there'll  be  profits,"  said 
Oakley,  whose  mind  was  beginning  to  reach  out 
into  the  future. 

"  I  guess  the  stockholders  will  drop  dead  if  we  ever 
earn  a  dividend.  That's  the  last  thing  they  are 
looking  forward  to,"  remarked  Cornish,  dryly. 
"Will  you  leave  a  six-thirty  call  at  the  office  for  me? 
I  forgot,  and  I  must  take  the  first  train." 

Oakley  had  gathered  up  his  order-book  and  papers. 
The  general  was  already  fumbling  with  his  cravat 
and  collar. 

40 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"  I  am  very  well  satisfied  with  your  plan,  and  I  be- 
lieve you  have  the  ability  to  carry  it  out." 

He  threw  aside  his  coat  and  vest  and  sat  down  to 
tote  off  his  shoes.  "  Don't  saddle  yourself  with  too 
much  work.  Keep  enough  of  an  office  force  to  save 
yourself  wherever  you  can.  I  think,  if  orders  con-' 
tinue  to  come  in  as  they  have  been  doing,  the  shops 
promise  well.  It  just  shows  what  a  little  energy 
will  accomplish." 

"  With  judicious  nursing  in  the  start,  there  should 
be  plenty  of  work  for  us,  and  we  are  well  equipped 
to  handle  it." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Cornish.  "A  lot  of  money  was 
spent  on  the  plant.  I  wanted  it  just  right." 

"I  can't  understand  why  more  hasn't  been  done 
with  the  opportunity  here." 

"I've  never  been  able  to  find  the  proper  man  to 
take  hold,  until  I  found  you,  Oakley.  You  have 
given  me  a  better  insight  into  conditions  than  I  have 
had  at  any  time  since  I  built  the  road,  and  it  ain't 
such  a  bad  proposition,  after  all,  especially  the 
shops."  The  general  turned  out  the  gas  as  he  spoke, 
and  Oakley,  as  he  stood  in  the  doorway  of  his  own 
room,  saw  dimly  a  white  figure  moving  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  bed. 

"I'd  figure  close  on  all  repair  work.  The  thing 
is  to  get  them  into  the  habit  of  coming  to  us.  Don't 
forget  the  call,  please.  Six-thirty  sharp." 

The  slats  creaked  and  groaned  beneath  his  weight. 
"Good-night." 


CHAPTER  V 

'"PHE  next  morning  Oakley  saw  General  Cornish 
1  off  on  the  7.15  train,  and  then  went  back  to 
his  hotel  for  breakfast.  Afterwards,  on  his  way  to 
the  office  he  mailed  a  check  to  Ezra  Hart  for  his  fa- 
ther. The  money  was  intended  to  meet  his  expenses 
in  coming  West. 

He  was  very  busy  all  that  day  making  out  his  new 
schedules,  and  in  figuring  the  cuts  and  just  what 
they  would  amount  to.  He  approached  his  task 
with  a  certain  reluctance,  for  it  was  as  unpleasant 
to  him  personally  as  it  was  necessary  to  the  future 
of  the  road,  and  he  knew  that  no  half-way  meas- 
ures would  suffice.  He  must  cut,  as  a  surgeon  cuts, 
to  save.  By  lopping  away  a  man  here  and  there, 
giving  his  work  to  some  other  man,  or  dividing  it 
up  among  two  or  three  men,  he  managed  to  peel  off 
two  thousand  dollars  on  the  year.  He  counted  that 
a  very  fair  day's  work. 

He  would  start  his  reform  with  no  particular  ag- 
gressiveness. He  would  retire  the  men  he  intended 
to  dismiss  from  the  road  one  at  a  time.  He  hoped 
they  would  take  the  hint  and  hunt  other  positions. 
At  any  rate,  they  could  not  get  back  until  he  was 
ready  to  take  them  back,  as  Cornish  had  assured 

42 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

him  he  would  not  be  interfered  with.  He  con- 
cluded not  to  hand  the  notices  and  orders  to  Miss 
Walton,  the  typewriter,  to  copy.  She  might  let  drop 
some  word  that  would  give  his  victims  an  inkling  of 
what  was  in  store  for  them.  He  knew  there  were  un- 
pleasant scenes  ahead  of  him,  but  there  was  no  need 
to  anticipate.  When  at  last  his  figures  for  the  cuts 
were  complete  he  would  have  been  grateful  for  some 
one  with  whom  to  discuss  the  situation.  All  at  once 
his  responsibilities  seemed  rather  heavier  than  he 
had  bargained  for. 

There  were  only  two  men  in  the  office  besides  him- 
self— Philip  Kerr,  the  treasurer,  and  Byron  Holt, 
his  assistant.  They  were  both  busy  with  the  pay- 
roll, as  it  was  the  sixth  of  the  month,  and  they  com- 
menced to  pay  off  in  the  shops  on  the  tenth. 

He  had  little  or  no  use  for  Kerr,  who  still  showed, 
where  he  dared,  in  small  things  his  displeasure  that 
an  outsider  had  been  appointed  manager  of  the  road. 
He  had  counted  on  the  place  for  himself  for  a  num- 
ber of  years,  but  a  succession  of  managers  had 
come  and  gone  apparently  without  its  ever  having 
occurred  to  General  Cornish  that  an  excellent  exec- 
utive was  literally  spoiling  in  the  big,  bare,  general 
offices  of  the  line. 

This  singular  indifference  on  the  part  of  Cornish 
to  his  real  interests  had  soured  a  disposition  that  at 
its  best  had  more  of  acid  in  it  than  anything  else. 
As  there  was  no  way  in  which  he  could  make  his  re- 
sentment known  to  the  general,  even  if  he  had  deemed 
such  a  course  expedient,  he  took  it  out  of  Oakley, 

43 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

and  kept  his  feeling  for  him  on  ice.  Meanwhile  he 
bided  his  time,  hoping  for  Oakley's  downfall  and  his 
own  eventual  recognition. 

With  the  assistant  treasurer,  Dan's  relations  were 
entirely  cordial.  Holt  was  a  much  younger  man 
than  Kerr,  as  frank  and  open  as  the  other  was  secret 
and  reserved.  When  the  six-o'clock  whistle  blew 
he  glanced  up  from  his  work  and  said : 

"I  wish  you'd  wait  a  moment,  Holt.  I  want  to 
see  you." 

Kerr  had  already  gone  home,  and  Miss  Walton 
was  adjusting  her  hat  before  a  bit  of  a  mirror  that 
hung  on  the  wall  back  of  her  desk.  "All  right," 
responded  Holt,  cheerfully. 

"Just  draw  up  your  chair,"  said  Oakley,  handing 
his  papers  to  him.  At  first  Holt  did  not  understand ; 
then  he  began  to  whistle  softly,  and  fell  to  checking 
off  the  various  cuts  with  his  forefinger. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  job,  Byron?"  inquired 
Oakley. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  I  don't  get  laid  off,  that's  sure. 
Say,  just  bear  in  mind  that  I'm  going  to  be  married 
this  summer." 

"You  needn't  worry;  only  I  didn't  know 
that." 

"Well,  please  don't  forget  it,  Mr.  Oakley." 

Holt  ran  over  the  cuts  again.     Then  he  asked : 

"Who's  going  to  stand  for  this?  You  or  the  old 
man?  I  hear  he  was  in  town  last  night." 

"I  stand  for  it,  but  of  course  he  approves." 

"  I'll  bet  he  approves,"  and  the  assistant  treasurer 
44 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

grinned.     "This  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  suits  him 
right  down  to  the  ground." 

"  How  about  the  hands?  Do  you  know  if  they  are 
members  of  any  union?" 

"No,  but  there'll  be  lively  times  ahead  for  you. 
They  are  a  great  lot  of  kickers  here." 

"  Wait  until  I  get  through.  I  haven't  touched  the 
shops  yet;  that's  to  come  later.  I'll  skin  closer 
before  I'm  done."  Oakley  got  up  and  lit  his  pipe. 
"The  plant  must  make  some  sort  of  a  showing. 
We  can't  continue  at  the  rate  we  have  been  going. 
I  suppose  you  know  what  sort  of  shape  it  would  leave 
the  town  in  if  the  shops  were  closed." 

"Damn  poor  shape,  I  should  say.  Why,  it's  the 
money  that  goes  in  and  out  of  this  office  twice  a 
month  that  keeps  the  town  alive.  It  couldn't  exist 
a  day  without  that." 

"  Then  it  behooves  us  to  see  to  it  that  nothing  hap- 
pens to  the  shops  or  road.  I  am  sorry  for  the  men  I 
am  laying  off,  but  it  can't  be  helped." 

"  I  see  you  are  going  to  chuck  Hoadley  out  of  his 
good  thing  at  the  Junction.  If  he  was  half  white 
he'd  a  gone  long  ago.  He  must  lay  awake  nights 
figuring  how  he  can  keep  decently  busy." 

"Is  the  list  all  right?" 

"Yes.  No,  it's  not,  either.  You've  marked  off 
Joe  Percell  at  Harrison.  He  used  to  brake  for  the 
Huckleberry  until  he  lost  an  arm.  His  is  a  pen- 
sion job." 

"Put  his  name  back,  then.  How  do  you  think 
it's  going  to  work?" 

45 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"Oh,  it  will  work  all  right,  because  it  has  to,  but 
they'll  all  be  cussing  you/'  with  great  good  humor. 
"What's  the  matter,  anyhow?  Did  the  old  man 
throw  a  fit  at  the  size  of  the  pay-roll?" 

"Not  exactly,  but  he  came  down  here  with  his 
mind  made  up  to  sell  the  road  to  the  M.  &  W." 

"You  don't  say  so!" 

"I  talked  him  out  of  that,  but  we  must  make  a 
showing,  for  he's  good  and  tired,  and  may  dump 
the  whole  business  any  day." 

"Well,  if  he  does  that  there'll  be  no  marrying  or 
giving  in  marriage  for  me  this  summer.  It  will  be 
just  like  a  Shaker  settlement  where  I  am  concerned." 

Dan  laughed.  "Oh,  you'd  be  all  right,  Holt. 
You'd  get  something  else,  or  the  M.  &  W.  would 
keep  you  on." 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  A  new  management 
generally  means  a  clean  sweep  all  round,  and  my 
berth's  a  pretty  good  one." 

In  some  manner  a  rumor  of  the  changes  Oakley 
proposed  making  did  get  abroad,  and  he  was  prompt- 
ly made  aware  that  his  popularity  in  Antioch  was  a 
thing  of  the  past.  He  was  regarded  as  an  oppressor 
from  whom  some  elaborate  and  wanton  tyranny 
might  be  expected.  While  General  Cornish  suf- 
fered their  inefficiency,  his  easy-going  predecessors 
had  been  content  to  draw  their  salaries  and  let  it  go 
at  that,  a  line  of  conduct  which  Antioch  held  to  be 
entirely  proper.  This  new  man,  however,  was 
clearly  an  upstart,  cursed  with  an  insane  and  de- 
structive ambition  to  earn  money  from  the  road. 

46 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

Suppose  it  did  not  pay.  Cornish  could  go  down 
into  his  pocket  for  the  difference,  just  as  he  had  al- 
ways done. 

What  the  town  did  not  know,  and  what  it  would 
not  have  believed  even  if  it  had  been  told,  was  that 
the  general  had  been  on  the  point  of  selling  —  a 
change  that  would  have  brought  hardship  to  every 
one.  The  majority  of  the  men  in  the  shops  owned 
their  own  homes,  and  these  homes  represented  the 
savings  of  years.  The  sudden  exodus  of  two  or 
three  hundred  families  meant  of  necessity  wide- 
spread ruin.  Those  who  were  forced  to  go  away 
would  have  to  sacrifice  everything  they  possessed 
to  get  away,  while  those  who  remained  would  be 
scarcely  better  off.  But  Antioch  never  considered 
such  a  radical  move  as  even  remotely  possible.  It 
counted  the  shops  a  fixture;  they  had  always  been 
there,  and  for  this  sufficient  reason  they  would  al- 
ways remain. 

The  days  wore  on,  one  very  like  another,  with 
their  spring  heat  and  lethargy.  Occasionally,  Oak- 
ley saw  Miss  Emory  on  the  street  to  bow  to,  but  not 
to  speak  with ;  while  he  was  grateful  for  these  es- 
capes, he  found  himself  thinking  of  her  very  often. 
He  fancied — and  he  was  not  far  wrong — that  she 
was  finding  Antioch  very  dull.  He  wondered,  too,  if 
she  was  seeing  much  of  Ryder.  He  imagined  that 
she  was;  and  here  again  he  was  not  far  wrong. 
Now  and  then  he  was  seized  with  what  he  felt  to  be 
a  weak  desire  to  call,  but  he  always  thought  better 
of  it  in  time,  and  was  always  grateful  he  had  not 

47 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

succumbed  to  the  impulse.  But  her  mere  presence 
in  Antioch  seemed  to  make  him  dissatisfied  and 
resentful  of  its  limitations.  Ordinarily  he  was  not 
critical  of  his  surroundings.  Until  she  came,  that 
he  was  without  companionship  and  that  the  town 
was  given  over  to  a  deadly  inertia  which  expressed 
itself  in  the  collapsed  ambition  of  nearly  every  man 
and  woman  he  knew,  had  scarcely  affected  him  be- 
yond giving  him  a  sense  of  mild  wonder. 

He  had  heard  nothing  of  his  father,  and  in  the 
pressure  of  his  work  and  freshened  interest  in  the 
fortunes  of  the  Huckleberry,  had  hardly  given 
him  a  second  thought.  He  felt  that,  since  he  had 
sent  money  to  him,  he  was  in  a  measure  relieved  of 
all  further  responsibility.  If  his  father  did  not  wish 
to  come  to  him,  that  was  his  own  affair.  He  had 
placed  no  obstacle  in  his  way. 

He  had  gone  through  life  without  any  demand 
having  been  made  on  his  affections.  On  those  rare 
occasions  that  he  devoted  to  self-analysis  he  serious- 
ly questioned  if  he  possessed  any  large  capacity  in 
that  direction.  The  one  touch  of  sentiment  to  which 
he  was  alive  was  the  feeling  he  centred  about  the 
few  square  feet  of  turf  where  his  mother  lay  under 
the  sweet-briar  and  the  old  elms  in  the  burying-plot 
of  the  little  Eastern  village.  The  sexton  was  in- 
structed to  see  that  the  spot  was  not  neglected,  and 
that  there  were  always  flowers  on  the  grave.  She 
had  loved  flowers.  It  was  somehow  a  satisfaction 
to  Dan  to  overpay  him  for  this  care.  But  he  had 
his  moments  of  remorse,  because  he  was  unable  to 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

go  back  there.  Once  or  twice  he  had  started  East, 
fully  intending  to  do  so,  but  had  weakened  at  the 
last  moment.  Perhaps  he  recognized  that  while  it 
was  possible  to  return  to  a  place,  it  was  not  possible 
to  return  to  an  emotion. 

Oakley  fell  into  the  habit  of  working  at  the  office 
after  the  others  left  in  the  evening.  He  liked  the 
quiet  of  the  great  bare  room  and  the  solitude  of  the 
silent,  empty  shops.  Sometimes  Holt  remained, 
too,  and  discussed  his  matrimonial  intentions,  or 
entertained  his  superior  with  an  account  of  his  pre- 
vious love  affairs,  for  the  experiences  were  far  be- 
yond his  years.  He  had  exhausted  the  possibilities 
of  Antioch  quite  early  in  life.  At  one  time  or  another 
he  had  either  been  engaged,  or  almost  engaged,  to 
every  pretty  girl  in  the  place.  He  explained  his 
seeming  inconsistency,  however,  by  saying  he  was 
naturally  of  a  very  affectionate  disposition. 


CHAPTER  VI 

T  ATE  one  afternoon,  as  Oakley  sat  at  his  desk 
I—/  in  the  broad  streak  of  yellow  light  that  the 
sun  sent  in  through  the  west  windows,  he  heard  a 
step  on  the  narrow  board-walk  that  ran  between  the 
building  and  the  tracks.  The  last  shrill  shriek  of 
No.  7,  as  usual,  half  an  hour  late,  had  just  died  out 
in  the  distance,  and  the  informal  committee  of  town 
loafers  which  met  each  train  was  plodding  up  Main 
Street  to  the  post-office  in  solemn  silence. 

He  glanced  around  as  the  door  into  the  yards 
opened,  expecting  to  see  either  Holt  or  Kerr.  In- 
stead he  saw  a  tall,  gaunt  man  of  sixty-five,  a  little 
stoop-shouldered,  and  carrying  his  weight  heavily 
and  solidly.  His  large  head  was  sunk  between  broad 
shoulders.  It  was  covered  by  a  wonderful  growth 
of  iron-gray  hair.  The  face  was  clean-shaven  and 
had  the  look  of  a  placid  mask.  There  was  a  curi- 
ous repose  in  the  man's  attitude  as  he  stood  with  a 
big  hand — the  hand  of  an  artisan — resting  loosely 
on  the  knob  of  the  door. 

"Is  it  you,  Dannie?" 

The  smile  that  accompanied  the  words  was  at  once 
anxious,  hesitating,  and  inquiring.  He  closed  the 
door  with  awkward  care  and  coming  a  step  nearer, 

50 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

put  out  his  hand.  Oakley,  breathing  hard,  rose 
hastily  from  his  chair,  and  stood  leaning  against  the 
corner  of  his  desk  as  if  he  needed  its  support.  He 
was  white  to  the  lips. 

There  was  a  long  pause  while  the  two  men  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes. 

"Don't  you  know  me,  Dannie?"  wistfully.  Dan 
said  nothing,  but  he  extended  his  hand,  and  his  fa- 
ther's fingers  closed  about  it  with  a  mighty  pressure. 
Then,  quite  abruptly,  Roger  Oakley  turned  and 
walked  over  to  the  window.  Once  more  there  was 
absolute  silence  in  the  room,  save  for  the  ticking  of 
the  clock  and  the  buzzing  of  a  solitary  fly  high  up  on 
the  ceiling. 

The  old  convict  was  the  first  to  break  the  tense 
stillness. 

"  I  had  about  made  up  my  mind  I  should  never  see 
you  again,  Dannie.  When  your  mother  died  and 
you  came  West  it  sort  of  wiped  out  the  little  there  was 
between  me  and  the  living.  In  fact,  I  really  didn't 
know  you  would  care  to  see  me,  and  when  Hart  told 
me  you  wished  me  to  come  to  you  and  had  sent  the 
money,  I  could  hardly  believe  it." 

Here  the  words  failed  him  utterly.  He  turned 
slowly  and  looked  into  his  son's  face  long  and  lov- 
ingly. "I've  thought  of  you  as  a  little  boy  for  all 
these  years,  Dannie — as  no  higher  than  that,"  drop- 
ping his  hand  to  his  hip.  "  And  here  you  are  a  man 
grown.  But  you  got  your  mother's  look — I'd  have 
known  you  by  it  among  a  thousand." 

If  Dan  had  felt  any  fear  of  his  father  it  had  left  him 
51 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

the  instant  he  entered  the  room.  Whatever  he  might 
have  done,  whatever  he  might  have  been,  there  was 
no  question  as  to  the  manner  of  man  he  had  become. 
He  stepped  to  his  son's  side  and  took  his  hand  in  one 
of  his  own. 

"  You've  made  a  man  of  yourself.  I  can  see  that. 
What  do  you  do  here  for  a  living?" 

Dan  laughed,  queerly. 

"  I  am  the  general  manager  of  the  railroad,  father," 
nodding  towards  the  station  and  the  yards.  "  But 
it's  not  much  to  brag  about.  It's  only  a  one-horse 
line,"  he  added. 

"No,  you  don't  mean  it,  Dannie!"  And  he  could 
see  that  his  father  was  profoundly  impressed.  He  put 
up  his  free  hand  and  gently  patted  Dan's  head  as 
though  he  were  indeed  the  little  boy  he  remembered. 

"Did  you  have  an  easy  trip  West,  father?"  Oakley 
asked.  "You  must  be  tired." 

"Not  a  bit,  Dannie.  It  was  wonderful.  I'd  been 
shut  of!  from  it  all  for  more  than  twenty  years,  and 
each  mile  was  taking  me  nearer  you." 

The  warm  yellow  light  was  beginning  to  fade 
from  the  room.  It  was  growing  late. 

"I  guess  we'd  better  go  up-town  to  the  hotel  and 
have  our  supper.  Where  is  your  trunk?  At  the 
station?" 

" I've  got  nothing  but  a  bundle.     It's  at  the  door." 

Dan  locked  his  desk,  and  they  left  the  office. 

"Is  it  all  yours?"  Roger  Oakley  asked,  pausing 
as  they  crossed  the  yards,  to  glance  up  and  down 
the  curving  tracks. 

52 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"It's  part  of  the  property  I  manage.  It  belongs 
to  General  Cornish,  who  holds  most  of  the  stock." 

"And  the  train  I  came  on,  Dannie,  who  owned 
that?" 

"  At  Buckhorn  Junction,  where  you  changed  cars 
for  the  last  time,  you  caught  our  local  express.  It 
runs  through  to  a  place  called  Harrison — the  termi- 
nus of  the  line.  This  is  only  a  branch  road,  you 
know." 

But  the  explanation  was  lost  on  his  father.  His 
son's  relation  to  the  road  was  a  magnificent  fact 
which  he  pondered  with  simple  pleasure. 

After  their  supper  at  the  hotel  they  went  up-stairs. 
Roger  Oakley  had  been  given  a  room  next  his  son's. 
It  was  the  same  room  General  Cornish  had  occupied 
when  he  was  in  Antioch. 

"Would  you  like  to  put  away  your  things  now?" 
asked  Dan,  as  he  placed  his  father's  bundle,  which 
he  had  carried  up-town  from  the  office,  on  the  bed. 

"  I'll  do  that  by  and  by.  There  ain't  much  there — 
just  a  few  little  things  I've  managed  to  keep,  or  that 
have  been  given  me." 

Dan  pushed  two  chairs  before  an  open  window  that 
overlooked  the  square.  His  father  had  taken  a  huge 
blackened  meerschaum  from  its  case  and  was  care- 
fully filling  it  from  a  leather  pouch. 

"You  don't  mind  if  I  light  my  pipe?"  he  inquired. 

"Not  a  bit.  I've  one  in  my  pocket,  but  it's  not 
nearly  as  fine  as  yours." 

"Our  warden  gave  it  to  me  one  Christmas,  and 
I've  smoked  it  ever  since.  He  was  a  very  good  man, 

53 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

Dannie.     It's  the  old  warden  I'm  speaking  of,  not 
Kenyon,  the  new  one,  though  he's  a  good  man,  too." 

Dan  wondered  where  he  had  heard  the  name  of 
Kenyon  before;  then  he  remembered — it  was  at  the 
Emorys' . 

"Try  some  of  my  tobacco,  Dannie,"  passing  the 
pouch. 

For  a  time  the  two  men  sat  in  silence,  blowing 
clouds  of  white  smoke  out  into  the  night.  Under 
the  trees,  just  bursting  into  leaf,  the  street-lamps 
flickered  in  a  long,  dim  perspective,  and  now  and 
then  a  stray  word  floated  up  to  them,  coming  from 
a  group  of  idlers  on  the  corner  below  the  win- 
dow. 

Roger  Oakley  hitched  his  chair  nearer  his  son's, 
and  rested  a  heavy  hand  on  his  knee.  "I  like  it 
here,"  he  said. 

"Do  you?     I  am  glad." 

"What  will  be  the  chances  of  my  finding  work? 
You  know  I'm  a  cabinet-maker  by  trade." 

"  There's  no  need  of  your  working ;  so  don't  worry 
about  that." 

"  But  I  must  work,  Dannie.  I  ain't  used  to  sitting 
still  and  doing  nothing." 

"Well,"  said  Oakley,  willing  to  humor  him,  "there 
are  the  car  shops." 

"Can  you  get  me  in?" 

"  Oh  yes,  when  you  are  ready  to  start.  I'll  have 
McClintock,  the  master  mechanic,  find  something  in 
your  line  for  you  to  do." 

"I'll  need  to  get  a  kit  of  tools." 
54 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"I  guess  McClintock  can  arrange  that,  too.  I'll 
see  him  about  it  when  you  are  ready." 

"Then  that's  settled.  I'll  begin  in  the  morning/' 
with  quiet  determination. 

"But  don't  you  want  to  look  around  first?" 

"I'll  have  my  Sundays  for  that."  And  Dan  saw 
that  there  was  no  use  in  arguing  the  point  with  him. 
He  was  bent  on  having  his  own  way. 

The  old  convict  filled  his  lungs  with  a  deep,  free 
breath.  "Yes,  I'm  going  to  like  it.  I  always  did 
like  a  small  town,  anyhow.  Tell  me  about  yourself, 
Dannie.  How  do  you  happen  to  be  here?" 

Dan  roused  himself.  "  I  don't  know.  It's  chance, 
I  suppose.  After  mother's  death — " 

"  Twenty  years  ago  last  March,"  breaking  in  upon 
him,  softly;  then,  nodding  at  the  starlit  heavens, 
"She's  up  yonder  now,  watching  us.  Nothing's 
hidden  or  secret.  It's  all  plain  to  her." 

"  Do  you  really  think  that,  father?" 

"I  know  it,  Dannie."  And  his  tone  was  one  of 
settled  conviction. 

Dan  had  already  discovered  that  his  father  was 
deeply  religious.  It  was  a  faith  the  like  of  which 
had  not  descended  to  his  own  day  and  generation. 

"  Well,  I  had  it  rather  hard  for  a  while,"  going  back 
to  his  story. 

"  Yes,"  with  keen  sympathy.  "  You  were  nothing 
but  a  little  boy." 

"  Finally,  I  was  lucky  enough  to  get  a  place  as  a 
newsboy  on  a  train.  I  sold  papers  until  I  was  six- 
teen, and  then  began  braking.  I  wanted  to  be  an 

55 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

engineer,  but  I  guess  my  ability  lay  in  another 
direction.  At  any  rate,  they  took  me  off  the  road 
and  gave  me  an  office  position  instead.  I  got  to  be 
a  division  superintendent,  and  then  I  met  Gen- 
eral Cornish.  He  is  one  of  the  directors  of  the  line 
I  was  with  at  the  time.  Three  months  ago  he 
made  me  an  offer  to  take  hold  here,  and  so  here 
lam." 

"And  you've  never  been  back  home,  Dannie?" 
"Never  once.  I've  wanted  to  go,  but  I  couldn't/' 
He  hoped  his  father  would  understand. 
"  Well,  there  ain't  much  to  take  you  there  but  her 
grave.  I  wish  she  might  have  lived,  you'd  have 
been  a  great  happiness  to  her,  and  she  got  very  little 
happiness  for  her  portion  any  ways  you  look  at  it. 
We  were  only  just  married  when  the  war  came,  and 
I  was  gone  four  years.  Then  there  was  about  eleven 
years  when  we  were  getting  on  nicely.  We  had 
money  put  by,  and  owned  our  own  home.  Can  you 
remember  it,  Dannie?  The  old  brick  place  on  the 
corner  across  from  the  post-office.  A  new  Methodist 
church  stands  there  now.  It  was  sold  to  get  money 
for  my  lawyer  when  the  big  trouble  came.  After- 
wards, when  everything  was  spent,  she  must  have 
found  it  very  hard  to  make  a  living  for  herself  and 
you." 

"She  did,"  said  Dan,  gently.  "But  she  man- 
aged somehow  to  keep  a  roof  over  our  heads." 

"When  the  law  sets  out  to  punish  it  don't  stop 
with  the  guilty  only.  When  I  went  to  her  grave  and 
saw  there  were  flowers  growing  on  it,  and  that  it  was 

56 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

being  cared  for,  it  told  me  what  you  were.     She  was 
a  very  brave  woman,  Dannie." 
"Yes/'  pityingly,  "she  was." 
"Few  women  have  had  the  sorrow  she  had,  and 
few  women  could  have  borne  up  under  it  as  she  did. 
You  know  that  was  an  awful  thing  about  Sharp." 

He  put  up  his  hand  and  wiped  the  great  drops  of 
perspiration  from  his  forehead. 
Dan  turned  towards  him  quickly. 
"Why  do  you  speak  of  it?    It's  all  past  now." 
"I'd  sort  of  like  to  tell  you  about  it." 
There  was  a  long  pause,  and  he  continued : 
"Sharp  and  I  had  been  enemies  for  a  long  time. 
It  started  back  before  the  war,  when  he  wanted  to 
marry  your  mother.     We  both  enlisted  in  the  same 
regiment,  and  somehow  the  trouble  kept  alive.     He 
was  a  bit  of  a  bully,  and  I  was  counted  a  handy  man 
with  my  fists,  too.     The  regiment  was  always  trying 
to  get  us  into  the  ring  together,  but  we  knew  it  was 
dangerous.    We  had  sense  enough  for  that.     I  won't 
say  he  would  have  done  it,  but  I  never  felt  safe  when 
there  was  a  fight  on  in  all  those  four  years.     It's  easy 
enough  to  shoot  the  man  in  front  of  you  and  no  one 
be  the  wiser.     Many  a  score's  been  settled  that  way. 
When  we  got  home  again  we  didn't  get  along  any 
better.     He  was  a  drinking  man,  and  had  no  control 
over  himself  when  liquor  got  the  best  of  him.     I  did 
my  share  in  keeping  the  feud  alive.     What  he  said 
of  me  and  what  I  said  of  him  generally  reached  both 
of  us  in  time,  as  you  can  fancy. 

"At  last,  when  I  joined  the  church,  I  concluded 
57 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

it  wasn't  right  to  hate  a  man  the  way  I  hated  Sharp, 
for,  you  see,  he'd  never  really  done  anything  to  me. 

"One  day  I  stopped  in  at  the  smithy — he  was  a 
blacksmith — to  have  a  talk  with  him  and  see  if  we 
couldn't  patch  it  up  somehow  and  be  friends.  It 
was  a  Saturday  afternoon,  and  he'd  been  drinking 
more  than  was  good  for  him. 

"I  hadn't  hardly  got  the  first  words  out  when  he 
came  at  me  with  a  big  sledge  in  his  hand,  all  in  a 
rage,  and  swearing  he'd  have  my  life.  I  pushed  him 
off  and  started  for  the  door.  I  saw  it  was  no  use  to 
try  to  reason  with  him,  but  he  came  at  me  again,  and 
this  time  he  struck  me  with  his  sledge.  It  did  no 
harm,  though  it  hurt,  and  I  pushed  him  out  of  my 
way  and  backed  off  towards  the  door.  The  lock 
was  caught,  and  before  I  could  open  it,  he  was 
within  striking  distance  again,  and  I  had  to  turn  to 
defend  myself.  I  snatched  up  a  bar  of  iron  perhaps 
a  foot  long.  I  had  kept  my  temper  down  until  then, 
but  the  moment  I  had  a  weapon  in  my  hand  it  got 
clean  away  from  me,  and  in  an  instant  I  was  fighting 
— just  as  he  was  fighting — to  kill." 

Roger  Oakley  had  told  the  story  of  the  murder  in  a 
hard,  emotionless  voice,  but  Dan  saw  in  the  half- 
light  that  his  face  was  pale  and  drawn.  Dan  found 
it  difficult  to  associate  the  thought  of  violence  with 
the  man  at  his  side,  whose  whole  manner  spoke  of  an 
unusual  restraint  and  control.  That  he  had  killed  a 
man,  even  in  self-defence,  seemed  preposterous  and 
inconceivable. 

There  was  a  part  of  the  story  Roger  Oakley  could 
58 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

not  tell,  and  which  his  son  had  no  desire  to 
hear. 

"People  said  afterwards  that  I'd  gone  there  pur- 
posely to  pick  a  quarrel  with  Sharp,  and  his  helper, 
who,  it  seems,  was  in  the  yard  back  of  the  smithy 
setting  a  wagon  tire,  swore  he  saw  me  through  a 
window  as  I  entered,  and  that  I  struck  the  first  blow. 
He  may  have  seen  only  the  end  of  it,  and  really  be- 
lieved I  did  begin  it,  but  that's  a  sample  of  how  things 
got  twisted.  Nobody  believed  my  motive  was  what 
I  said  it  was.  The  jury  found  me  guilty  of  murder, 
and  the  judge  gave  me  a  life  sentence.  A  good  deal 
of  a  fuss  was  made  over  what  I  did  at  the  fire  last 
winter.  Hart  told  me  he'd  sent  you  the  papers." 

Dan  nodded,  and  his  father  continued: 

"  Some  ladies  who  were  interested  in  mission  work 
at  the  prison  took  the  matter  up  and  got  me  my  par- 
don. It's  a  fearful  and  a  wicked  thing  for  a  man  to 
lose  his  temper,  Dannie.  At  first  I  was  bitter  against 
every  one  who  had  a  hand  in  sending  me  to  prison, 
but  I've  put  that  all  from  my  heart.  It  was  right  I 
should  be  punished." 

He  rose  from  his  chair,  striking  the  ashes  from  his 
pipe. 

"Ain't  it  very  late,  Dannie?  I'll  just  put  away 
my  things,  and  then  we  can  go  to  bed.  I  didn't 
mean  to  keep  you  up." 

Oakley  watched  his  precise  and  orderly  arrange- 
ment of  his  few  belongings.  He  could  see  that  it 
was  a  part  of  the  prison  discipline  under  which  he 
had  lived  for  almost  a  quarter  of  a  century.  When 

59 


The  Manager  of  the  B.   &  A. 

the  contents  of  his  bundle  were  disposed  of  to  his 
satisfaction,  he  put  on  a  pair  of  steel- rimmed  spec- 
tacles, with  large,  round  glasses,  and  took  up  a  well- 
thumbed  Bible,  which  he  had  placed  at  one  side. 

"  I  hope  you  haven't  forgotten  this  book,  Dannie," 
tapping  it  softly  with  a  heavy  forefinger. 


CHAPTER  VII 

KERR  and  Holt  were  at  Buckhorn  Junction  with 
the  pay-car,  a  decrepit  caboose  that  complained 
in  every  wheel  as  the  engine  jerked  it  over  the  rails. 
Holt  said  that  its  motion  was  good  for  Kerr's  dys- 
pepsia. He  called  it  the  pay-car  cure,  and  professed 
to  believe  it  a  subtle  manifestation  of  the  general's 
benevolence. 

Miss  Walton  was  having  a  holiday.  This  left 
Oakley  the  sole  tenant  of  the  office. 

He  had  returned  from  Chicago  the  day  before, 
where  he  had  gone  to  drum  up  work. 

It  was  a  hot,  breathless  morning  in  May.  The 
machinery  in  the  shops  droned  on  and  on,  with  the 
lazy,  softened  hum  of  revolving  wheels,  or  the  swish 
of  swiftly  passing  belts.  A  freight  was  cutting  out 
cars  in  the  yards.  It  was  rather  noisy  and  bumped 
discordantly  in  and  out  of  the  sidings. 

Beyond  the  tracks  and  a  narrow  field,  where  the 
young  corn  stood  in  fresh  green  rows,  was  a  line  of 
stately  sycamores  and  vivid  willows  that  bordered 
Billup's  Fork.  Tradition  had  it  that  an  early  settler 
by  the  name  of  Billup  had  been  drowned  there — a 
feat  that  must  have  required  considerable  ingenuity 
on  his  part,  as  the  stream  was  nothing  but  a  series  of 

61 


The  Manager  of  the  B.   &  A. 

shallow  riffles,  with  an  occasional  deep  hole.  Once 
Jeffy,  generously  drunk,  had  attempted  to  end  his 
life  in  the  fork.  He  had  waded  in  above  his  shoe- 
tops,  only  to  decide  that  the  water  was  too  cold,  and 
had  waded  out  again,  to  the  keen  disappointment  of 
six  small  boys  on  the  bank,  who  would  have  been 
grateful  for  any  little  excitement.  He  said  he  want- 
ed to  live  to  invent  a  drink  that  tasted  as  good  coming 
up  as  it  did  going  down ;  there  was  all  kinds  of  money 
in  such  a  drink.  But  the  boys  felt  they  had  been 
swindled,  and  threw  stones  at  him.  It  is  sometimes 
difficult  to  satisfy  an  audience.  Nearer  at  hand, 
but  invisible,  Clarence  was  practising  an  elusive 
dance-step  in  an  empty  coal-car.  He  was  inspired  by 
a  lofty  ambition  to  equal — he  dared  not  hope  to  excel 
— a  gentleman  he  had  seen  at  a  recent  minstrel  per- 
formance. 

McClintock,  passing,  had  inquired  sarcastically 
if  it  was  his  busy  day,  but  Clarence  had  ignored  the 
question.  He  felt  that  he  had  nothing  in  common 
with  one  who  possessed  such  a  slavish  respect  for 
mere  industry. 

Presently  McClintock  wandered  in  from  the  hot 
out-of-doors  to  talk  over  certain  repairs  he  wished 
undertaken  in  the  shops.  He  was  a  typical  Ameri- 
can mechanic,  and  Oakley  liked  him,  as  he  always 
liked  the  man  who  knew  his  business  and  earned  his 
pay. 

They  discussed  the  repairs,  and  then  Oakley 
asked,  "How's  my  father  getting  along,  Milt?" 

"Oh,  all  right.     He's  a  little  slow,  that's  all." 
62 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"What's  he  on  now?" 

"Those  blue-line  cars  that  came  in  last  month." 

"  There  isn't  much  in  that  batch.  I  had  to  figure 
close  to  get  the  work.  Keep  the  men  moving." 

"They  are  about  done.  I'll  put  the  painters  on 
the  job  to-morrow." 

"That's  good." 

McClintock  went  over  to  the  water-cooler  in  the 
corner  and  filled  a  stemless  tumbler  with  ice-water. 

"  We'll  be  ready  to  send  them  up  to  Buckhorn  the 
last  of  next  week.  Is  there  anything  else  in  sight?" 

He  gulped  down  the  water  at  a  single  swallow. 

"  No,  not  at  present,  but  there  are  one  or  two  pretty 
fair  orders  coming  in  next  month  that  I  was  lucky 
enough  to  pick  up  in  Chicago.  Isn't  there  any  work 
of  our  own  we  can  go  at  while  things  are  slack?" 

"Lots  of  it,"  wiping  his  hands  on  the  legs  of  his 
greasy  overalls.  "All  our  day  coaches  need  paint, 
and  some  want  new  upholstery." 

"We'd  better  go  at  that,  then." 

"All  right.  I'll  take  a  look  at  the  cars  in  the 
yards,  and  see  what  I  can  put  out  in  place  of  those 
we  call  in.  There's  no  use  talking,  Mr.  Oakley, 
you've  done  big  things  for  the  shops,"  he  added. 

"  Well,  I  am  getting  some  work  for  them,  and  while 
there  isn't  much  profit  in  it,  perhaps,  it's  a  great  deal 
better  than  being  idle." 

"Just  a  whole  lot,"  agreed  McClintock. 

"  I  think  I  can  pick  up  contracts  enough  to  keep 
us  busy  through  the  summer.  I  understand  you've 
always  had  to  shut  down." 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"Yes,  or  half-time/'  disgustedly. 

"I  guess  we  can  worry  through  without  that;  at 
any  rate,  I  want  to,"  observed  Oakley. 

"  I'll  go  see  how  I  can  manage  about  our  own  re- 
pairs/' said  McClintock. 

He  went  out,  and  from  the  window  Oakley  saw 
him  with  a  bunch  of  keys  in  his  hand  going  in  th6 
direction  of  a  line  of  battered  day  coaches  on  one  oi 
the  sidings.  The  door  opened  again  almost  im- 
mediately to  admit  Griff  Ryder.  This  was  almost 
the  last  person  in  Antioch  from  whom  Dan  was  ex- 
pecting a  call.  The  editor's  cordiality  as  he  greeted 
him  made  him  instantly  suspect  that  some  favor  was 
wanted.  Most  people  who  came  to  the  office  wanted 
favors.  Usually  it  was  either  a  pass  or  a  concession 
on  freight. 

As  a  rule,  Kerr  met  all  such  applicants.  His 
manner  fitted  him  for  just  such  interviews,  and  he 
had  no  gift  for  popularity,  which  suffered  in  conse- 
quence. 

Ryder  pushed  a  chair  over  beside  Oakley's  and 
seated  himself.  By  sliding  well  down  on  his  spine 
he  managed  to  reach  the  low  sill  of  the  window  with 
his  feet.  He  seemed  to  admire  the  effect,  for  he 
studied  them  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

"There's  a  little  matter  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
about,  Oakley.  I've  been  intending  to  run  in  for 
the  past  week,  but  I  have  been  so  busy  I  couldn't." 

Oakley  nodded  for  him  to  go  on. 

"In  the  first  place,  I'd  like  to  feel  that  you  were 
for  Kenyon.  You  can  be  of  a  great  deal  of  use  to  us 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

this  election.  It's  going  to  be  close,  and  Kenyon's  a 
pretty  decent  sort  of  a  chap  to  have  come  out  of  these 
parts.  You  ought  to  take  an  interest  in  seeing  him 
re-elected." 

Oakley  surmised  that  this  was  the  merest  flattery 
intended  to  tickle  his  vanity.  He  answered  prompt- 
ly that  he  didn't  feel  the  slightest  interest  in  politics 
one  way  or  the  other. 

"Well,  but  one  good  fellow  ought  to  wish  to  see 
another  good  fellow  get  what  he's  after,  and  you  can 
help  us  if  you've  a  mind  to ;  but  this  isn't  what  I've 
come  for.  It's  about  Hoadley." 

"What  about  Hoadley?"  quickly. 

"  He's  got  the  idea  that  his  days  with  the  Huckle- 
berry are  about  numbered." 

"I  haven't  said  so." 

"I  know  you  haven't." 

"Then  what  is  he  kicking  about?  When  he's  to 
go,  he'll  hear  of  it  from  me." 

"  But,  just  the  same,  it's  in  the  air  that  there's  to 
be  a  shake-up,  and  that  a  number  of  men,  and  Hoad- 
ly  among  them,  are  going  to  be  laid  off.  Now,  he's 
another  good  fellow,  and  he's  a  friend  of  mine,  and 
I  told  him  I'd  come  in  and  fix  it  up  with  you." 

"I  don't  think  you  can  fix  it  up  with  me,  Mr. 
Ryder.  Just  the  same,  I'd  like  to  know  how  this 
got  out." 

"Then  there  is  to  be  a  shake-up?" 

Oakley  bit  his  lips.  "You  seem  to  take  it  for 
granted  there  is  to  be." 

"I  guess  there's  something  back  of  the  rumor." 
E  65 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you  why  Hoadley 's  got  to  go/' 

"  Oh,  he  is  to  go,  then?  I  thought  my  information 
was  correct/' 

"In  the  first  place,  he's  not  needed,  and  in  the 
second  place,  he's  a  lazy  loafer.  The  road  must 
earn  its  keep.  General  Cornish  is  sick  of  putting 
his  hand  in  his  pocket  every  six  months  to  keep  it 
out  of  bankruptcy.  You  are  enough  of  a  business 
man  to  know  he  won't  stand  that  sort  of  thing  for- 
ever. Of  course  I  am  sorry  for  Hoadley  if  he  needs 
the  money,  but  some  one's  got  to  suffer,  and  he  hap- 
pens to  be  the  one.  I'll  take  on  his  work  myself. 
I  can  do  it,  and  that's  a  salary  saved.  I  haven't 
any  personal  feeling  in  the  matter.  The  fact  that  I 
don't  like  him,  as  it  happens,  has  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  If  he  were  my  own  brother  he'd  have  to  get  out." 

"I  can't  see  that  one  man,  more  or  less,  is  going 
to  make  such  a  hell  of  a  difference,  Oakley,"  Ryder 
urged,  with  what  he  intended  should  be  an  air  of 
frank  good-fellowship. 

"Can't  you?"  with  chilly  dignity.  Oakley  was 
slow  to  anger,  but  he  had  always  fought  stubbornly 
for  what  he  felt  was  due  him,  and  he  wished  the 
editor  to  understand  that  the  management  of  the 
B.  &  A.  was  distinctly  not  his  province. 

Ryder's  eyes  were  half  closed,  and  only  a  narrow 
slit  of  color  showed  between  the  lids. 

"  I  am  very  much  afraid  we  won't  hit  it  off.  I  be- 
gin to  see  we  aren't  going  to  get  on.  I  want  you  to 
keep  Hoadley  as  a  personal  favor  to  me.  Just  wait 
until  I  finish.  If  you  are  going  in  for  reform,  I  may 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

have  it  in  iny  power  to  be  of  some  service  to  you. 
You  will  need  some  backing  here,  and  even  a  coun- 
try newspaper  can  manufacture  public  sentiment. 
Now  if  we  aren't  to  be  friends  you  will  find  me  on  the 
other  side,  and  working  just  as  hard  against  you  as  I 
am  willing  to  work  for  you  if  you  let  Hoadley  stay/' 

Oakley  jumped  up. 

"I  don't  allow  anybody  to  talk  like  that  to  me.  I 
am  running  this  for  Cornish.  They  are  his  interests, 
not  mine,  and  you  can  start  in  and  manufacture  all 
the  public  sentiment  you  damn  please."  Then  he 
cooled  down  a  bit  and  felt  ashamed  of  himself  for  the 
outburst. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  be  unfair  to  any  one  if  I  can 
help  it.  But  if  the  road's  earnings  don't  meet  the 
operating  expenses  the  general  will  sell  it  to  the  M. 
&  W.  Do  you  understand  what  that  means?  It 
will  knock  Antioch  higher  than  a  kite,  for  the  shops 
will  be  closed.  I  guess  when  all  hands  get  that 
through  their  heads  they  will  take  it  easier." 

"That's  just  the  point  I  made.  Who  is  going  to 
enlighten  them  if  it  isn't  me?  I  don't  suppose  you 
will  care  to  go  around  telling  everybody  what  a  fine 
fellow  you  are,  and  how  thankful  they  should  be  that 
you  have  stopped  their  wages.  We  can  work  double, 
Oakley.  I  want  Hoadley  kept  because  he's  prom- 
ised me  his  influence  for  Kenyon  if  I'd  exert  myself 
in  his  behalf.  He's  of  importance  up  at  the  Junction. 
Of  course  we  know  he's  a  drunken  beast,  but  that's 
got  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"I  am  sorry,  but  he's  got  to  go,"  said  Oakley, 
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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

doggedly.     "A  one-horse  railroad  can't  carry  dead 
timber." 

"Very  well."  And  Ryder  pulled  in  his  legs  and 
rose  slowly  from  his  chair.  "  If  you  can't  and  won't 
see  it  as  I  do  it's  your  lookout." 

Oakley  laughed,  shortly. 

"I  guess  I'll  be  able  to  meet  the  situation,  Mr. 
Ryder." 

"  Perhaps  you  will,  and  perhaps  you  won't.  We'll 
see  about  that  when  the  time  comes." 

"You  heard  what  I  said  about  the  M.  &  W.?" 

"Well,  what  about  that?" 

"You  understand  what  it  means — the  closing  of 
the  shops?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  that's  a  long  ways  off." 

He  stalked  over  to  the  door  with  his  head  in  the 
air.  He  was  mad  clear  through.  At  the  door  he 
turned.  Hoadley's  retention  meant  more  to  him 
than  he  would  have  admitted.  It  was  not  that  he 
cared  a  rap  for  Hoadley.  On  the  contrary,  he  de- 
tested him,  but  the  fellow  was  a  power  in  country 
politics. 

"  If  you  should  think  better  of  it — "  and  he  was 
conscious  his  manner  was  weak  with  the  weakness 
of  the  man  who  has  asked  and  failed. 

"I  sha'n't,"  retorted  Oakley,  laconically. 

He  scouted  the  idea  that  Ryder,  with  his  little 
country  newspaper  could  either  help  or  harm  him. 


CHAPTER  VIH 

ROGER  OAKLEY  had  gone  to  work  in  the  car- 
shops  the  day  following  his  arrival  in  Antioch. 

Dan  had  sought  to  dissuade  him,  but  he  was  stub- 
bornness itself,  and  the  latter  realized  that  the  only 
thing  to  do  was  to  let  him  alone,  and  not  seek  to  con- 
trol him. 

After  all,  if  he  would  be  happier  at  work,  it  was 
no  one's  affair  but  his  own. 

It  never  occurred  to  the  old  convict  that  pride  might 
have  to  do  with  the  stand  Dan  took  in  the  matter. 

He  was  wonderfully  gentle  and  affectionate,  with 
a  quaint,  unworldly  simplicity  that  was  rather  pa- 
thetic. His  one  anxiety  was  to  please  Dan,  but,  in 
spite  of  this  anxiety,  once  a  conviction  took  posses- 
sion of  him  he  clung  to  it  with  unshaken  tenacity  in 
the  face  of  every  argument  his  son  could  bring  to 
bear. 

Under  the  inspiration  of  his  newly  acquired  free- 
dom, he  developed  in  unexpected  ways.  As  soon  as 
he  felt  that  his  place  in  the  shops  was  secure  and 
that  he  was  not  to  be  interfered  with,  he  joined  the 
Methodist  Church.  Its  services  occupied  most  of 
his  spare  time.  Every  Thursda3r  night  found  him 
at  prayer-meeting.  Twice  each  Sunday  he  went  to 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

church,  and  by  missing  his  dinner  he  managed  to 
take  part  in  the  Sunday-school  exercises.  A  social 
threw  him  into  a  flutter  of  pleased  expectancy.  Not 
content  with  what  his  church  offered,  irrespective  of 
creed,  he  joined  every  society  in  the  place  of  a  re- 
ligious or  temperance  nature,  and  was  a  zealous  and 
active  worker  among  such  of  the  heathen  as  flour- 
ished in  Antioch.  There  was  a  stern  Old  Testament 
flavor  to  his  faith.  He  would  have  dragged  the  err- 
ing from  their  peril  by  main  strength,  and  have 
regulated  their  morals  by  legal  enactments.  Those 
of  the  men  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  in  the 
shops  treated  him  with  the  utmost  respect,  partly  on 
his  own  account,  and  partly  because  of  Dan. 

McClintock  always  addressed  him  as  "The  Dea- 
con," and  soon  ceased  to  overflow  with  cheerful  pro- 
fanity in  his  presence.  The  old  man  had  early  taken 
occasion  to  point  out  to  him  the  error  of  his  ways  and 
to  hint  at  what  was  probably  in  store  for  him  unless 
he  curbed  the  utterances  of  his  tongue.  He  was  not 
the  only  professing  Christian  in  the  car-shops,  but 
he  was  the  only  one  who  had  ventured  to  "  call  down  " 
the  master-mechanic. 

Half  of  all  he  earned  he  gave  to  the  church.  The 
remainder  of  his  slender  income  he  divided  again 
into  two  equal  parts.  One  of  these  he  used  for  his 
personal  needs,  the  other  disappeared  mysteriously. 
He  was  putting  it  by  for  "Dannie." 

It  was  a  disappointment  to  him  that  his  son  took 
only  the  most  casual  interest  in  religious  matters. 
He  comforted  himself,  however,  with  the  remera- 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

brance  that  at  his  age  his  own  interest  had  been  mere- 
ly traditional.  It  was  only  after  his  great  trouble 
that  the  awakening  came.  He  was  quite  certain 
"Dannie"  would  experience  this  awakening,  too, 
some  day. 

Finally  he  undertook  the  regeneration  of  Jeffy. 
Every  new-comer  in  Antioch  of  a  philanthropic  turn 
of  mind  was  sure  sooner  or  later  to  fall  foul  of  the 
outcast,  who  was  usually  willing  to  drop  whatever 
he  was  doing  to  be  reformed.  It  pleased  him  and  in- 
terested him. 

He  was  firmly  grounded  in  the  belief,  however, 
that  in  his  case  the  reformation  that  would  really 
reform  would  have  to  be  applied  externally,  and 
without  inconvenience  to  himself,  but  until  the 
spiritual  genius  turned  up  who  could  work  this  mir- 
acle, he  was  perfectly  willing  to  be  experimented 
upon  by  any  one  who  had  a  taste  for  what  he  called 
good  works. 

After  Mrs.  Bentick's  funeral  he  had  found  the 
means,  derived  in  part  from  the  sale  of  Turner 
Joj'ce's  wardrobe,  to  go  on  a  highly  sensational 
drunk,  which  comprehended  what  was  known  in 
Antioch  as  "The  Snakes." 

Roger  Oakley  had  unearthed  him  at  the  gas-house, 
a  melancholy,  tattered  ruin.  He  had  rented  a  room 
for  his  occupancy,  and  had  conveyed  him  thither 
under  cover  of  the  night.  During  the  week  that 
followed,  while  Jeffy  was  convalescent,  he  spent  his 
evenings  there  reading  to  him  from  the  Bible. 

Jeffy  would  have  been  glad  to  escape  these  at- 
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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

tentions.  This  new  moral  force  in  the  community 
inspired  an  emotion  akin  to  awe.  Day  by  day,  as 
he  recognized  the  full  weight  of  authority  in  Roger 
Oakley's  manner  towards  him,  this  awe  increased, 
until  at  last  it  developed  into  an  acute  fear.  So  he 
kept  his  bed  and  meditated  flight.  He  even  con- 
sidered going  as  far  away  as  Buckhorn  or  Harrison 
to  be  rid  of  the  old  man.  Then,  by  degrees,  he  felt 
himself  weaken  and  succumb  to  the  other's  control. 
His  cherished  freedom — the  freedom  of  the  woods 
and  fields,  and  the  drunken  spree  variously  attained, 
seemed  only  a  happy  memory.  But  the  last  straw 
was  put  upon  him,  and  he  rebelled  when  his  bene- 
factor announced  that  he  was  going  to  find  work  for 
him. 

At  first  Jeffy  had  preferred  not  to  take  this  se- 
riously. He  assumed  to  regard  it  as  a  delicate  sar- 
casm on  the  part  of  his  new  friend.  He  closed  first 
one  watery  eye  and  then  the  other.  It  was  such  a 
good  joke.  But  Roger  Oakley  only  reiterated  his  in- 
tention with  unmistakable  seriousness.  It  was  no 
joke,  and  the  outcast  promptly  sat  up  in  bed,  while  a 
look  of  slow  horror  overspread  his  face. 

"  But  I  ain't  never  worked,  Mr.  Oakley,"  he  whined, 
hoarsely.  "  I  don't  feel  no  call  to  work.  The  fact  is, 
I  am  too  busy  to  work.  I  would  be  wasting  my  time 
if  I  done  that.  I'd  be  durn  thankful  if  you  could  re- 
form me,  but  I'll  tell  you  right  now  this  ain't  no  way 
to  begin.  No,  sir,  you  couldn't  make  a  worse  start." 

"It's  high  time  you  went  at  something,"  said  his 
self-appointed  guide  and  monitor,  with  stony  con- 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.   &  A. 

viction,  and  he  backed  his  opinion  with  a  quotation 
from  the  Scriptures. 

Now  to  Jeffy,  who  had  been  prayerfully  brought 
up  by  a  pious  mother,  the  Scriptures  were  the  foun- 
tain-head of  all  earthly  wisdom.  To  invoke  a  cita- 
tion from  the  Bible  was  on  a  par  with  calling  in  the 
town  marshal.  It  closed  the  incident  so  far  as  ar- 
gument was  concerned.  He  was  vaguely  aware 
that  there  was  one  text  which  he  had  heard  which 
seemed  to  give  him  authority  to  loaf,  but  he  couldn't 
remember  it. 

Roger  Oakley  looked  at  him  rather  sternly  over 
the  tops  of  his  steel  -  rimmed  spectacles,  and 
said,  with  quiet  determination,  "I  am  going  to 
make  a  man  of  you.  You've  got  it  in  you. 
There's  hope  in  every  human  life.  You  must  let 
drink  alone,  and  you  must  work.  Work's  what  you 
need." 

"No,  it  ain't.  I  never  done  a  day's  work  in  my 
life.  It'd  kill  me  if  I  had  to  get  out  and  hustle  and 
sweat  and  bile  in  the  sun.  Durnation!  of  all  fool 
ideas!  I  never  seen  the  beat!"  He  threw  himself 
back  on  the  bed,  stiff  and  rigid,  and  covered  his  face 
with  the  sheet. 

For  perhaps  a  minute  he  lay  perfectly  still.  Then 
the  covers  were  seen  to  heave  tumultuously,  while 
short  gasps  and  sobs  were  distinctly  audible.  Pres- 
ently two  skinny  but  expressive  legs  habited  in  red 
flannel  were  thrust  from  under  the  covers  and  kicked 
violently  back  and  forth. 

A  firm  hand  plucked  the  sheet  from  before  the  out- 
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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

cast's  face,  and  the  gaunt  form  of  the  old  convict 
bent  grimly  above  him. 

"  Come,  come,  Jeffy,  I  didn't  expect  this  of  you.  I 
am  willing  to  help  you  in  every  way  I  can.  I'll  get 
my  son  to  make  a  place  for  you  at  the  shops.  How 
will  you  like  that?" 

"How'll  I  like  it?  You  ought  to  know  me  well 
enough  to  know  I  won't  like  it  a  little  bit!"  in  tearful 
and  indignant  protest.  "You  just  reach  me  them 
pants  of  mine  off  the  back  of  that  chair.  You  mean 
well,  I'll  say  that  much  for  you,  but  you  got  the 
sweatiest  sort  of  a  religion;  durned  if  it  ain't  all 
work!  Just  reach  me  them  pants,  do  now,"  and  he 
half  rose  up  in  his  bed,  only  to  encounter  a  strong 
arm  that  pushed  him  back  on  the  pillows. 

"  You  can't  have  your  pants,  Jeffy,  not  now.  You 
must  stay  here  until  you  get  well  and  strong." 

"  How  am  I  going  to  get  well  and  strong  with  you 
hounding  me  to  death?  I  never  seen  such  a  man  to 
take  up  with  an  idea  and  stick  to  it  against  all  rea- 
son. It  just  seems  as  if  you'd  set  to  work  to  break 
my  spirit,"  plaintively. 

Roger  Oakley  frowned  at  him  in  silence  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  he  said : 

"I  thought  we'd  talked  all  this  over,  Jeffy." 

"I  just  wanted  to  encourage  you.  I  was  mighty 
thankful  to  have  you  take  hold.  I  hadn't  been  re- 
formed for  over  a  year.  It  about  seemed  to  me  that 
everybody  had  forgotten  I  needed  to  be  reformed, 
and  I  was  willing  to  give  you  a  chance.  No  one 
can't  ever  say  I  ain't  stood  ready  to  do  that  much." 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"But,  my  poor  Jeffy,  you  will  have  to  do  more 
than  that." 

"  Blamed  if  it  don't  seem  to  me  as  if  you  was  ex- 
pecting me  to  do  it  all!" 

The  old  convict  drew  up  a  chair  to  the  bedside  and 
sat  down. 

"I  thought  you  told  me  you  wanted  to  be  a  man 
and  to  be  respected?"  said  this  philanthropist,  with 
evident  displeasure. 

Jeffy  choked  down  a  sob  and  sat  up  again.  He 
gestured  freely  with  his  arms  in  expostulation. 

"I  was  drunk  when  I  said  that.  Yes,  sir,  I  was 
as  full  as  I  could  stick.  Now  I'm  sober,  I  know  rot- 
ten well  what  I  want." 

"What  do  you  want,  Jeffy?" 

"  Well,  I  want  a  lot  of  things." 

"Well,  what,  for  instance?" 

"  Well,  sir,  it  ain't  no  prayers,  and  it  ain't  no  Bible 
talks,  and  it  ain't  no  lousy  work.  It's  coming  warm 
weather.  I  want  to  lay  up  along  the  crick-bank  in 
the  sun  and  do  nothing — what  I  always  done.  I've 
had  a  durned  hard  winter,  and  I  been  a-living  for 
the  spring." 

A  look  of  the  keenest  disappointment  clouded 
Roger  Oakley's  face  as  Jeffy  voiced  his  ignoble  am- 
bitions. His  resentment  gave  way  to  sorrow.  He 
murmured  a  prayer  that  he  might  be  granted  strength 
and  patience  for  his  task,  and  as  he  prayed  with  half- 
closed  eyes,  the  outcast  plugged  his  ears  with  his  fin- 
gers. He  was  a  firm  believer  in  the  efficacy  of  pray- 
er, and  he  felt  he  couldn't  afford  to  take  any  chances. 

75 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

Roger  Oakley  turned  to  him  with  greater  gentle- 
ness of  manner  than  he  had  yet  shown. 

"Don't  you  want  the  love  and  confidence  of  your 
neighbors,  Jeffy?"  he  asked,  pityingly. 

"I  ain't  got  no  neighbors,  except  the  bums  who 
sleep  along  of  me  at  the  gas-house  winter  nights.  I 
always  feel  this  way  when  I  come  off  a  spree ;  first  it 
seems  as  if  I'd  be  willing  never  to  touch  another  drop 
of  licker  as  long  as  I  lived.  I  just  lose  interest  in 
everything,  and  I  don't  care  a  durn  what  happens 
to  me.  Why,  I've  joined  the  Church  lots  of  times 
when  I  felt  that  way,  but  as  soon  as  I  begin  to  get 
well  it's  different.  I  am  getting  well  now,  and  what 
I  told  you  don't  count  any  more.  I  got  my  own 
way  of  living/' 

"But  what  a  way!"  sadly. 

"Maybe  it  ain't  your  way,  and  maybe  it  ain't  the 
best  way,  but  it  suits  me  bully.  I  can  always  get 
enough  to  eat  by  going  and  asking  some  one  for  it, 
and  you  can't  beat  that.  No,  sir.  You  know  durn 
well  you  can't!"  becoming  argumentative.  "It  just 
makes  me  sick  to  think  of  paying  for  things  like 
vittles  and  clothes.  A  feller's  got  to  have  clothes, 
anyhow,  ain't  he?  You  know  mighty  well  he  has, 
or  he'll  get  pinched,  and  supposing  I  was  to  earn  a 
lot  of  money,  even  as  much  as  a  dollar  a  day,  I'd 
have  to  spend  every  blamed  cent  to  live.  One  day 
I'd  work,  and  then  the  next  I'd  swaller  what  I'd 
worked  for.  Where's  the  sense  in  that?  And  I'd 
have  all  sorts  of  ornery  worries  for  fear  I'd  lose  my 
job."  A  look  of  wistful  yearning  overspread  his 

76 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

face.  "  Just  you  give  me  the  hot  days  that's  coming, 
when  a  feller's  warm  clean  through  and  sweats  in 
the  shade,  and  I  won't  ask  for  no  money.  You  can 
have  it  all!" 

That  night,  when  he  left  him,  Roger  Oakley  care- 
fully locked  the  door  and  pocketed  the  key,  and  the 
helpless  wretch  on  the  bed,  despairing  and  misera- 
ble, and  cut  off  from  all  earthly  hope,  turned  his  face 
to  the  white  wall  and  sobbed  aloud. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THEY  were  standing  on  the  street  corner  before 
the  hotel.  Oakley  had  just  come  up-town  from 
the  office.  He  was  full  of  awkward  excuses  and  apol- 
ogies, but  Dr.  Emory  cut  them  short. 

"I  suppose  I've  a  right  to  be  angry  at  the  way 
you've  avoided  us,  but  I'm  not.  On  the  contrary, 
I'm  going  to  take  you  home  to  dinner  with  me." 

If  Dan  had  consulted  his  preferences  in  the  matter, 
he  would  have  begged  off,  but  he  felt  he  couldn't, 
without  giving  offence;  so  he  allowed  the  doctor  to 
lead  him  away,  but  he  didn't  appear  as  pleased  or  as 
grateful  as  he  should  have  been  at  this  temporary 
release  from  the  low  diet  of  the  American  House. 

Miss  Emory  was  waiting  for  her  father  on  the 
porch.  An  errand  of  hers  had  taken  him  down- 
town. 

She  seemed  surprised  to  see  Oakley,  but  gracious- 
ly disposed  towards  him.  While  he  fell  short  of  her 
standards,  he  was  decidedly  superior  to  the  local 
youth  with  whom  she  had  at  first  been  inclined  to 
class  him.  Truth  to  tell,  the  local  youth  fought 
rather  shy  of  the  doctor's  beautiful  daughter.  Mr. 
Burt  Smith,  the  gentlemanly  druggist  and  acknowl- 
edged social  leader,  who  was  much  sought  after  by 

78 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

the  most  exclusive  circles  in  such  centres  of  fashion 
as  Buckhorn  and  Harrison,  had  been  so  chilled  by 
her  manner  when,  meeting  her  on  the  street,  he  had 
attempted  to  revive  an  acquaintance  which  dated 
back  to  their  childhood,  that  he  was  a  mental  wreck 
for  days  afterwards,  and  had  hardly  dared  trust  him- 
self to  fill  even  the  simplest  prescription. 

When  the  Monday  Club  and  the  Social  Science 
Club  and  the  History  Club  hinted  that  she  might 
garner  great  sheaves  of  culture  and  enlightenment 
at  their  meetings,  Constance  merely  smiled  conde- 
scendingly, but  held  aloof,  and  the  ladies  of  Antioch 
were  intellectual  without  her  abetment.  They  si- 
lently agreed  with  the  Emorys'  free-born  help,  who 
had  seen  better  days,  that  she  was  "  haughty  proud  " 
and  "stuck  up." 

Many  was  the  informal  indignation  meeting  they 
held,  and  many  the  vituperate  discussion  handed 
down  concerning  Miss  Emory,  but  Miss  Emory  went 
her  way  with  her  head  held  high,  apparently  serene- 
ly unconscious  of  her  offence  against  the  peace  and 
quiet  of  the  community. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  she  was  intentionally 
unkind  or  arrogant.  It  was  unfortunate,  perhaps, 
but  she  didn't  like  the  townspeople.  She  would 
have  been  perfectly  willing  to  admit  they  were  quite 
as  good  as  she.  The  whole  trouble  was  that  they 
were  different,  and  the  merits  of  this  difference  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  case.  Her  stand  in  the  mat- 
ter shocked  her  mother  and  amused  her  father. 

Dr.  Emory  excused  himself  and  went  into  the 
79 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

house.  Dan  made  himself  comfortable  on  the  steps 
at  Miss  Emory's  side.  In  the  very  nearness  there 
was  something  luxurious  and  satisfying.  He  was 
silent  because  he  feared  the  antagonism  of  speech. 

The  rest  of  Antioch  had  eaten  its  supper,  princi- 
pally in  its  shirt-sleeves,  and  was  gossiping  over 
front  gates,  or  lounging  on  front  steps.  When  An- 
tioch loafed  it  did  so  with  great  singleness  of  pur- 
pose. 

Here  and  there  through  the  town,  back  yards  had 
been  freshly  ploughed  for  gardens.  In  some  of  these 
men  and  boys  were  burning  last  year's  brush  and 
litter.  The  smoke  hung  heavy  and  undispersed  in 
the  twilight.  Already  the  younger  hands  from  the 
car-shops  had  "cleaned  up,"  and,  dressed  in  their 
best  clothes,  were  hurrying  back  down-town  to  hang 
about  the  square  and  street  corners  until  it  was  time 
to  return  home  and  go  to  bed. 

Off  in  the  distance  an  occasional  shrill  whistle  told 
where  the  ubiquitous  small  boy  was  calling  a  com- 
rade out  to  play,  and  every  now  and  then,  with  a 
stealthy  patter  of  bare  feet,  some  coatless  urchin 
would  scurry  past  the  Emorys'  gate. 

It  was  calm  and  restful,  but  it  gave  one  a  feeling 
of  loneliness,  too;  Antioch  seemed  very  remote 
from  the  great  world  where  things  happened,  or  were 
done.  In  spite  of  his  satisfaction,  Dan  vaguely  real- 
ized this.  To  the  girl  at  his  side,  however,  the  sit- 
uation was  absolutely  tragic.  The  life  she  had 
known  had  been  so  different,  but  it  had  been  pur- 
chased at  the  expense  of  a  good  deal  of  inconvenience 

80 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

and  denial  on  the  part  of  her  father  and  mother.  It 
was  impossible  to  ask  a  continuance  of  the  sacrifice, 
and  it  was  equally  impossible  to  remain  in  Antioch. 
She  did  not  want  to  be  selfish,  but  the  day  was  not 
far  off  when  it  would  resolve  itself  into  a  question  of 
simple  self-preservation.  She  had  not  yet  reached 
the  point  where  she  could  consider  marriage  as  a 
possible  means  of  escape,  and,  even  if  she  had,  it 
would  not  have  solved  the  problem,  for  whom  was 
she  to  marry? 

There  was  a  tired,  fretful  look  in  her  eyes.  She 
had  lost  something  of  her  brilliancy  and  freshness. 
In  her  despair  she  told  herself  she  was  losing  every- 
thing. 

"I  was  with  friends  of  yours  this  afternoon,  Mr. 
Oakley,"  she  said,  by  way  of  starting  the  conversa- 
tion. 

"Friends  of  mine,  here?" 

"Yes.     The  Joyces." 

"I  must  go  around  and  see  them.  They  have 
been  very  kind  to  my  father,"  said  Dan,  with  hearty 
good-will. 

"  How  long  is  your  father  to  remain  in  Antioch, 
Mr.  Oakley?"  inquired  Constance. 

"  As  long  as  I  remain,  I  suppose.  There  are  only 
the  two  of  us,  you  know." 

"What  does  he  find  to  do  here?" 

"Oh,"  laughed  Dan,  "he  finds  plenty  to  do.  His 
energy  is  something  dreadful.  Then,  too,  he's  em- 
ployed at  the  shops;  that  keeps  him  pretty  busy, 
you  see." 

F  8l 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

But  Miss  Emory  hadn't  known  this  before.  She 
elevated  her  eyebrows  in  mild  surprise.  She  was 
not  sure  she  understood. 

"I  didn't  know  that  he  was  one  of  the  officers  of 
the  road/'  with  deceptive  indifference. 

"He's  not.  He's  a  cabinet-maker,"  explained 
the  literal  Oakley,  to  whom  a  cabinet-maker  was 
quite  as  respectable  as  any  one  else.  There  was  a 
brief  pause,  while  Constance  turned  this  over  in  her 
mind.  It  struck  her  as  very  singular  that  Oakley's 
father  should  be  one  of  the  hands.  Perhaps  she 
credited  him  with  a  sensitiveness  of  which  he  was 
entirely  innocent. 

She  rested  her  chin  in  her  hands  and  gazed  out 
into  the  dusty  street. 

"  Isn't  it  infinitely  pathetic  to  think  of  that  poor 
little  man  and  his  work?"  going  back  to  Joyce.  "  Do 
you  know,  I  could  have  cried?  And  his  wife's  faith, 
it  is  sublime,  even  if  it  is  mistaken."  She  laughed 
in  a  dreary  fashion.  "  What  is  to  be  done  for  people 
like  that,  whose  lives  are  quite  uncompensated?" 

To  Oakley  this  opened  up  a  field  for  future  specu- 
lation, but  he  approved  of  her  interest  in  Joyce.  It 
was  kindly  and  sincere,  and  it  was  unexpected.  He 
had  been  inclined  to  view  her  as  a  proud  young  per- 
son, unduly  impressed  with  the  idea  of  her  own 
beauty  and  superiority.  It  pleased  him  to  think 
he  had  been  mistaken. 

They  were  joined  by  the  doctor,  who  had  caught 
a  part  of  what  Constance  said,  and  divined  the 
rest. 

82 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"You  see  only  the  pathos.  Joyce  is  just  as  well 
off  here  as  he  would  be  anywhere  else,  and  perhaps 
a  little  better.  He  makes  a  decent  living  with  his 
pictures."  As  he  spoke  he  crossed  the  porch  and 
stood  at  her  side,  with  his  hand  resting  affectionately 
on  her  shoulder. 

"  I  guess  there's  a  larger  justice  in  the  world  than 
we  conceive,"  said  Oakley. 

"But  not  to  know,  to  go  on  blindly  doing  some- 
thing that  is  really  very  dreadful,  and  never  to 
know!  ' 

She  turned  to  Oakley. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  rather  agree  with  your  father.  He 
seems  happy  enough,  and  he  is  doing  work  for  which 
there  is  a  demand." 

"  Would  you  be  content  to  live  here  with  no  greater 
opportunity  than  he  has?" 

Oakley  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"No.  But  that's  not  the  same.  I'll  pull  the 
Huckleberry  up  and  make  it  pay,  and  then  go  in 
for  something  bigger." 

"And  if  you  can't  make  it  pay?" 

"I  won't  bother  with  it,  then." 

"But  if  you  had  to  remain?" 

Oakley  gave  her  an  incredulous  smile. 

"  That  couldn't  be  possible.  I  have  done  all  sorts 
of  things  but  stick  in  what  I  found  to  be  undesirable 
berths ;  but,  of  course,  business  is  not  at  all  the  same. " 

"But  isn't  it?  Look  at  Mr.  Ryder.  He  says  that 
he  is  buried  here  in  the  pine-woods,  with  no  hope 
of  ever  getting  back  into  the  world,  and  I  am  sure 

83 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

he  is  able,  and  journalism  is  certainly  a  business, 
like  anything  else." 

Oakley  made  no  response  to  this.  He  didn't  pro- 
pose to  criticise  Ryder,  but,  all  the  same,  he  doubted 
his  ability. 

"Griff's  frightfully  lazy,"  remarked  the  doctor. 
"He  prefers  to  settle  down  to  an  effortless  sort  of 
an  existence  rather  than  make  a  struggle." 

"Don't  you  think  Mr.  Ryder  extremely  clever, 
Mr.  Oakley?" 

"I  know  him  so  slightly,  Miss  Emory;  but  no 
doubt  he  is." 

Mrs.  Emory  appeared  in  the  doorway,  placid  and 
smiling. 

"  Constance,  you  and  Mr.  Oakley  come  on  in ;  din- 
ner's ready." 

When  Dan  went  home  that  night  he  told  himself 
savagely  that  he  would  never  go  to  the  Emorys' 
again.  The  experience  had  been  most  unsatisfac- 
tory. In  spite  of  Constance's  evident  disposition 
towards  tolerance  where  he  was  concerned,  she  ex- 
asperated him.  Her  unconscious  condescension  was 
a  bitter  memory  of  which  he  could  not  rid  himself. 
Certainly  women  must  be  petty,  small-souled  creat- 
ures if  she  was  at  all  representative  of  her  sex.  Yet, 
in  spite  of  his  determination  to  avoid  Constance, 
even  at  the  risk  of  seeming  rude,  he  found  it  required 
greater  strength  of  will  than  he  possessed  to  keep 
away  from  the  Emorys. 

He  realized,  in  the  course  of  the  next  few  weeks, 
that  a  new  stage  in  his  development  had  been  reach- 

84 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

ed.  Inspired  by  what  he  felt  was  a  false  but  beau- 
tiful confidence  in  himself,  he  called  often,  and,  as 
time  wore  on,  the  frequency  of  these  calls  steadily 
increased.  All  this  while  he  thought  about  Miss 
Emory  a  great  deal,  and  was  sorry  for  her  or  ad- 
mired her,  according  to  his  mood. 

In  Constance's  attitude  towards  him  there  was  a 
certain  fickleness  that  he  resented.  Sometimes  she 
was  friendly  and  companionable,  and  then  again  she 
seemed  to  revive  all  her  lingering  prejudices  and 
was  utterly  indifferent  to  him,  and  her  indifference 
was  the  most  complete  thing  of  its  kind  he  had  ever 
encountered. 

Naturally  Dan  and  Ryder  met  very  frequently, 
and  when  they  met  they  clashed.  It  was  not  es- 
pecially pleasant,  of  course,  but  Ryder  was  persist- 
ent and  Oakley  was  dogged.  Once  he  started  in 
pursuit  of  an  object,  he  never  gave  up  or  owned  that 
he  was  beaten.  In  some  form  he  had  accomplished 
everything  he  set  out  to  do;  and  if  the  results  had  not 
always  been  just  what  he  had  anticipated,  he  had  at 
least  had  the  satisfaction  of  bringing  circumstances 
under  his  control.  He  endured  the  editor's  sarcasms, 
and  occasionally  retaliated  with  a  vengeance  so 
heavy  as  to  leave  Griff  quivering  with  the  smart  of  it. 

Miss  Emory  found  it  difficult  to  maintain  the  peace 
between  them,  but  she  admired  Dan's  mode  of  war- 
fare. It  was  so  conclusive,  and  he  showed  such 
grim  strength  in  his  ability  to  look  out  for  himself. 

But  Dan  felt  that  he  must  suffer  by  any  compari- 
son with  the  editor.  He  had  no  genius  for  trifles, 

85 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

but  rather  a  ponderous  capacity.  He  had  worked 
hard,  with  the  single  determination  to  win  success. 
He  had  the  practical  man's  contempt,  born  of 
his  satisfied  ignorance  for  all  useless  things,  and 
to  his  mind  the  useless  things  were  those  whose 
value  it  was  impossible  to  reckon  in  dollars  and 
cents. 

He  had  been  well  content  with  himself,  and  now 
he  felt  that  somehow  he  had  lost  his  bearings.  Why 
was  it  he  had  not  known  before  that  the  mere  stren- 
uous climb,  the  mere  earning  of  a  salary,  was  not 
all  of  life?  He  even  felt  a  sneaking  envy  of  Ryder 
of  which  he  was  heartily  ashamed. 

Men  fall  in  love  differently.  Some  resist  and 
hang  back  from  the  inevitable,  not  being  sure  of 
themselves,  and  some  go  headlong,  never  having 
any  doubts.  With  characteristic  singleness  of  pur- 
pose, Dan  went  headlong;  but  of  course  he  did  not 
know  what  the  trouble  was  until  long  after  the  facts 
in  the  case  were  patent  to  every  one,  and  Antioch 
had  lost  interest  in  its  speculations  as  to  whether  the 
doctor's  daughter  would  take  the  editor  or  the  gen- 
eral manager,  for,  as  Mrs.  Poppleton,  the  Emorys' 
nearest  neighbor,  sagely  observed,  she  was  "  having 
her  pick." 

To  Oakley  Miss  Emory  seemed  to  accumulate  dig- 
nity and  reserve  in  the  exact  proportion  that  he  lost 
them,  but  he  was  determined  she  should  like  him 
if  she  never  did  more  than  that. 

She  was  just  the  least  bit  afraid  of  him.  She 
knew  he  was  not  deficient  in  a  proper  pride,  and  that 

86 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

he  possessed  plenty  of  self-respect,  but  for  all  that  he 
was  not  very  dexterous.  It  amused  her  to  lead  him 
on,  and  then  to  draw  back  and  leave  him  to  flounder 
out  of  some  untenable  position  she  had  beguiled  him 
into  assuming. 

She  displayed  undeniable  skill  in  these  manoeu- 
vres, and  Dan  was  by  turns  savage  and  penitent. 
But  she  never  gave  him  a  chance  to  say  what  he 
wanted  to  say. 

Ryder  made  his  appeal  to  her  vanity.  It  was  a 
strong  appeal.  He  was  essentially  presentable  and 
companionable.  She  understood  him,  and  they  had 
much  in  common,  but  for  all  that  her  heart  approved 
of  Oakley.  She  felt  his  dominance;  she  realized 
that  he  was  direct  and  simple  and  strong.  Yet  in 
her  judgment  of  him  she  was  not  very  generous. 
She  could  not  understand,  for  instance,  how  it  was 
that  he  had  been  willing  to  allow  his  father  to  go  to 
work  in  the  shops  like  one  of  the  common  hands.  It 
seemed  to  her  to  argue  such  an  awful  poverty  in 
the  way  of  ideals. 

The  old  convict  was  another  stumbling-block. 
She  had  met  him  at  the  Joyces',  and  had  been  quick 
to  recognize  that  he  and  Dan  were  very  much  alike 
— the  difference  was  merely  that  of  age  and  youth. 
Indeed,  the  similarity  was  little  short  of  painful. 
There  was  the  same  simplicity,  the  same  dogged 
stubbornness,  and  the  same  devotion  to  what  she 
conceived  to  be  an  almost  brutal  sense  of  duty.  In 
the  case  of  the  father  this  idea  of  duty  had  crystal- 
lized in  a  strangely  literal  belief  in  the  Deity  and  ex- 

87 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

pressed  itself  with  rampant  boastfulness  at  the  very 
discomforts  of  a  faith  which,  like  the  worship  of  Jug- 
gernaut, demanded  untold  sacrifices  and  apparently 
gave  nothing  in  return. 

She  tried  to  stifle  her  growing  liking  for  Oakley 
and  her  unwilling  admiration  for  his  strength  and 
honesty  and  a  certain  native  refinement.  Uncon- 
sciously, perhaps,  she  had  always  associated  quali- 
ties of  this  sort  with  position  and  wealth.  She  di- 
vined his  lack  of  early  opportunity,  and  was  alive  to 
his  many  crudities  of  speech  and  manner,  and  he 
suffered,  as  he  knew  he  must  suffer,  by  comparison 
with  the  editor;  but,  in  spite  of  this,  Constance 
Emory  knew  deep  down  in  her  heart  that  he  pos- 
sessed solid  and  substantial  merits  of  his  own. 


CHAPTER  X 

IV'ENYON  came  to  town  to  remind  his  Antioch 
1  v  friends  and  supporters  that  presently  he  would 
be  needing  their  votes. 

He  was  Ryder's  guest  for  a  week,  and  the  Herald 
recorded  his  movements  with  painstaking  accuracy 
and  with  what  its  editor  secretly  considered  metro- 
politan enterprise.  The  great  man  had  his  official 
headquarters  at  the  Herald  office,  a  ramshackle  two- 
story  building  on  the  west  side  of  the  square.  Here 
he  was  at  home  to  the  local  politicians,  and  to  such 
of  the  general  public  as  wished  to  meet  him.  The 
former  smoked  his  cigars  and  talked  incessantly  of 
primaries,  nominations,  and  majorities  —  topics  on 
which  they  appeared  to  be  profoundly  versed.  Their 
distinguishing  mark  was  their  capacity  for  strong 
drink,  which  was  far  in  excess  of  that  of  the  ordinary 
citizen  who  took  only  a  casual  interest  in  politics. 
The  Herald's  back  door  opened  into  an  alley,  and 
was  directly  opposite  that  of  the  Red  Star  saloon. 
At  stated  intervals  Mr.  Kenjron  and  Mr.  Ryder,  fol- 
lowed by  the  faithful,  trailed  through  this  back  door 
and  across  the  alley,  where  they  cheerfully  exposed 
themselves  to  such  of  the  gilded  allurements  of  vice 
as  the  Red  Star  had  to  offer. 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

The  men  of  Antioch  eschewed  front  doors  as  giving 
undue  publicity  to  the  state  of  their  thirst,  a  point 
on  which  they  must  have  been  very  sensitive,  for 
though  a  number  of  saloons  flourished  in  the  town, 
only  a  few  of  the  most  reckless  and  emancipated 
spirits  were  ever  seen  to  enter  them. 

Kenyon  was  a  sloppily  dressed  man  of  forty-five 
or  thereabouts,  who  preserved  an  air  of  rustic  shrewd- 
ness. He  was  angular-faced  and  smooth-shaven, 
and  wore  his  hair  rather  long  in  a  tangled  mop.  He 
was  generally  described  in  the  party  papers  as  "  The 
Picturesque  Statesman  from  Old  Hanover."  He 
had  served  one  term  in  Congress;  prior  to  that,  by 
way  of  apprenticeship,  he  had  done  a  great  deal  of 
hard  work  and  dirty  work  for  his  party.  His  fort- 
unes had  been  built  on  the  fortunes  of  a  bigger  and 
an  abler  man,  who,  after  a  fight  which  was  already 
famous  in  the  history  of  the  State  for  its  bitterness, 
had  been  elected  Governor,  and  Kenyon,  having 
picked  the  winner,  had  gone  to  his  reward.  Just 
now  he  had  a  shrewd  idea  that  the  Governor  was 
anxious  to  unload  him,  and  that  the  party  leaders 
were  sharpening  their  knives  for  him.  Their  change 
of  heart  grew  out  of  the  fact  that  he  had  "dared  to 
assert  his  independence,"  as  he  said,  and  had  "  play- 
ed the  sneak  and  broken  his  promises,"  as  they  said, 
in  a  little  transaction  which  had  been  left  to  him  to 
put  through. 

Personally  Ryder  counted  him  an  unmitigated 
scamp,  but  the  man's  breezy  vulgarity,  his  nerve, 
and  his  infinite  capacity  to  jolly  tickled  his  fancy. 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

He  had  so  far  freed  himself  of  his  habitual  indiffer- 
ence that  he  was  displaying  an  unheard-of  energy 
in  promoting  Kenyon's  interest.  Of  course  he  ex- 
pected to  derive  certain  very  substantial  benefits 
from  the  alliance.  The  Congressman  had  made 
him  endless  promises,  and  Ryder  saw,  or  thought 
he  saw,  his  way  clear  to  leave  Antioch  in  the  near 
future.  For  two  days  he  had  been  saying,  "Mr. 
Brown,  shake  hands  with  Congressman  Kenyon," 
or,  "Mr.  Jones,  I  want  you  to  know  Congressman 
Kenyon,  the  man  we  must  keep  at  Washington." 

He  had  marvelled  at  the  speed  with  which  the 
statesman  got  down  to  first  names.  He  had  also 
shown  a  positive  instinct  as  to  whom  he  should  in- 
vite to  make  the  trip  across  the  alley  to  the  Red  Star, 
and  whom  not.  Mr.  Kenyon  said,  modestly,  when 
Griff  commented  on  this,  that  his  methods  were 
modern — they  were  certainly  vulgar. 

"I  guess  I'm  going  to  give  'em  a  run  for  their 
money,  Ryder.  I  can  see  I'm  doing  good  work 
here.  There's  nothing  like  being  on  the  ground 
yourself." 

It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he  should  ig- 
nore the  work  Ryder  had  done  in  his  behalf. 

"  You  are  an  inspiration,  Sam.  The  people  know 
their  leader,"  said  the  editor,  genially,  but  with  a 
touch  of  sarcasm  that  was  lost  on  Kenyon,  who  took 
himself  quite  seriously. 

"Yes,  sir, they'd  'a'  done  me  dirt,"  feelingly,  "but 
I  am  on  my  own  range  now,  and  ready  to  pull  off 
my  coat  and  fight  for  what's  due  me." 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

They  were  seated  before  the  open  door  which 
looked  out  upon  the  square.  Kenyon  was  chewing 
nervously  at  the  end  of  an  unlit  cigar,  which  he  held 
between  his  fingers.  "When  the  nomination  is 
made  I  guess  the  other  fellow  will  discover  I  'ain't 
been  letting  the  grass  grow  in  my  path/'  He  spat 
out  over  the  door-sill  into  the  street.  "  What's  that 
you  were  just  telling  me  about  the  Huckleberry?" 

"  This  new  manager  of  Cornish's  is  going  to  make 
the  road  pay,  and  he's  going  to  do  it  from  the  pock- 
ets of  the  employes,"  said  Ryder,  with  a  disgruntled 
air,  for  the  memory  of  his  interview  with  Dan  still 
rankled. 

"That  ain't  bad,  either.  You  know  the  Govern- 
or's pretty  close  to  Cornish.  The  general  was  a 
big  contributor  to  his  campaign  fund." 

Ryder  hitched  his  chair  nearer  his  companion's. 

"If  there's  a  cut  in  wages  at  the  shops — and  I 
suppose  that  will  be  the  next  move — there's  bound 
to  be  a  lot  of  bad  feeling." 

"  Well,  don't  forget  we  are  for  the  people,"  re- 
marked the  Congressman,  and  he  winked  slyly. 

Ryder  smiled  cynically. 

"I  sha'n't.  I  have  it  in  for  the  manager,  any- 
how." 

"What's  wrong  with  him?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  but  a  whole  lot,"  answered  Griff, 
with  apparent  indifference. 

At  this  juncture  Dr.  Emory  crossed  the  square 
from  the  post-office  and  paused  in  front  of  the  Herald 
building. 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"How's  Dr.  Emory?"  said  Kenyon,  by  way  of 
greeting. 

Ryder  had  risen. 

"  Won't  you  come  in  and  sit  down,  doctor?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"  No,  no.  Keep  your  seat,  Griff.  I  merely  strolled 
over  to  say  how  d'ye  do?" 

Kenyon  shot  past  the  doctor  a  discolored  stream. 
That  gentleman  moved  uneasily  to  one  side. 

"Don't  move,"  said  the  statesman,  affably. 
"Plenty  of  room  between  you  and  the  casing." 

He  left  his  chair  and  stood  facing  the  doctor,  and 
unpleasantly  close.  "Say,  our  young  friend  here's 
turned  what  I  intended  to  be  a  vacation  into  a  very 
busy  time.  He's  got  me  down  for  speeches  and 
all  sorts  of  things,  and  it  will  be  a  wonder  if  I 
go  home  to  Hanover  sober.  I  won't  if  he  can 
help  it,  that's  dead  sure.  Won't  you  come  in  and 
have  something  ? — just  a  little  appetizer  before 
supper?" 

"No,  I  thank  you." 

"A  cigar,  then?"  fumbling  in  his  vest-pocket  with 
ringers  that  were  just  the  least  bit  unsteady. 

"No,  I  must  hurry  along." 

"We  hope  to  get  up  again  before  Mr.  Kenyon 
leaves  town,"  said  Ryder,  wishing  to  head  the  states- 
man off.  He  was  all  right  with  such  men  as  Cap 
Roberts  and  the  Hon.  Jeb  Burrows,  but  he  had  failed 
signally  to  take  the  doctor's  measure.  The  latter 
turned  away. 

"  I  hone  you  will,  Griff,"  he  said,  kindty,  his  voice 
93 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

dwelling  with  the  least  perceptible  insistence  on  the 
last  pronoun. 

"Remember  me  to  the  wife  and  daughter/'  called 
out  Kenyon,  as  the  physician  moved  up  the  street 
with  an  unusual  alacrity. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  men  from  the 
car-shops  were  beginning  to  straggle  past,  going 
in  the  direction  of  their  various  homes.  Presently 
Roger  Oakley  strode  heavily  by,  with  his  tin  dinner- 
pail  on  his  arm.  Otherwise  there  was  nothing, 
either  in  his  dress  or  appearance,  to  indicate  that  he 
was  one  of  the  hands.  As  he  still  lived  at  the  hotel 
with  Dan,  he  felt  it  necessary  to  exercise  a  certain 
care  in  the  matter  of  dress.  As  he  came  into  view 
the  Congressman  swept  him  with  a  casual  scrutiny ; 
then,  as  the  old  man  plodded  on  up  the  street  with 
deliberate  step,  Kenyon  rose  from  his  chair  and  stood 
in  the  doorway  gazing  after  him. 

"What's  the  matter,  Sam?"  asked  Ryder,  struck 
by  his  friend's  manner. 

"Who  was  that  old  man  who  just  went  past?" 

"That?    Oh,  that's  the  manager's  father.    Why?" 

"  Well,  he  looks  most  awfully  like  some  one  else, 
that's  all,"  and  he  appeared  to  lose  interest. 

"  No,  he's  old  man  Oakley.   He  works  in  the  shops. " 

"Oakley?" 

"Yes,  that's  his  name.     Why?"  curiously. 

"How  long  has  he  been  here,  anyhow?" 

"  A  month  perhaps,  maybe  longer.  Do  you  know 
him?" 

"I've  seen  him  before.  A  cousin  of  mine,  John 
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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

Kenyon,  is  warden  of  a  prison  back  in  Massachusetts. 
It  runs  in  the  blood  to  hold  office.  I  visited  him  last 
winter,  and  while  I  was  there  a  fire  broke  out  in  the 
hospital  ward,  and  that  old  man  had  a  hand  in  sav- 
ing the  lives  of  two  or  three  of  the  patients.  The 
beggars  came  within  an  ace  of  losing  their  lives. 
I  saw  afterwards  by  the  papers  that  the  Governor 
had  pardoned  him." 

Ryder  jumped  up  with  sudden  alacrity. 

"Do  you  remember  the  convict's  full  name?" 

Kenyon  meditated  a  moment ;  then  he  said : 

"Roger  Oakley." 

The  editor  turned  to  the  files  of  the  Herald. 

"  I'll  just  look  back  and  see  if  it's  the  same  name. 
I've  probably  got  it  here  among  the  personals,  if  I  can 
only  find  it.  What  was  he  imprisoned  for?"  he  added. 

"He  was  serving  a  life  sentence  for  murder,  I 
think,  John  told  me,  but  I  won't  be  sure." 

"The  devil,  you  say!"  ejaculated  Ryder.  "Yes, 
Roger  Oakley,  the  name's  the  same." 

"I  knew  I  couldn't  be  mistaken.  I  got  a  pretty 
good  memory  for  names  and  faces.  Curious,  ain't 
it,  that  he  should  turn  up  here?" 

Ryder  smiled  queerly  as  he  dropped  the  Herald 
files  back  into  the  rack. 

"  His  son  is  manager  for  Cornish  here.  He's  the 
fellow  I  was  telling  you  about." 

Kenyon  smiled,  too. 

"I  guess  you  won't  have  any  more  trouble  with 
him.  You've  got  him  where  you  can  hit  him,  and 
hit  him  hard  whenever  you  like." 

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CHAPTER  XI 

ROGER  OAKLEY  carried  out  his  threat  to  find 
work  for  Jeffy.  As  soon  as  the  outcast  was 
able  to  leave  his  bed,  he  took  him  down  to  the  car- 
shops,  which  were  destined  to  be  the  scene  of  this 
brief  but  interesting  industrial  experiment. 

It  was  early  morning,  and  they  found  only  Clar- 
ence there.  He  was  sweeping  out  the  office — a 
labor  he  should  have  performed  the  night  before, 
but,  unless  he  was  forcibly  detained,  he  much  pre- 
ferred to  let  it  go  over,  on  the  principle  that  every- 
thing that  is  put  off  till  the  morrow  is  just  so  much 
of  a  gain,  and,  in  the  end,  tends  to  reduce  the  total 
of  human  effort,  as  some  task  must  necessarily  be 
left  undone. 

As  Roger  Oakley  pushed  open  the  door  and  en- 
tered the  office  in  search  of  his  son,  his  charge,  who 
slunk  and  shuffled  after  him  with  legs  which  bore 
him  but  uncertainly,  cast  a  long  and  lingering  look 
back  upon  the  freedom  he  was  leaving.  The  dignity 
of  labor,  on  which  his  patron  had  been  expatiating 
as  they  walked  in  the  shortening  shadows  under  the 
maples,  seemed  a  scanty  recompense  for  all  he  was 
losing.  A  deep,  wistful  sigh  escaped  his  lips.  He 
turned  his  back  on  the  out-of-doors  and  peered  over 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

the  old  man's  shoulder  at  Clarence  with  bleary 
eyes.  Of  course,  he  knew  Clarence.  This  was  a 
privilege  not  denied  the  humblest.  Occasionally 
the  urchin  called  him  names,  more  often  he  pelted 
him  with  stones.  The  opportunities  for  excitement 
were  limited  in  Antioch,  and  the  juvenile  population 
needfully  made  the  most  of  those  which  existed. 

Jeffy  was  a  recognized  source  of  excitement.  It 
was  not  as  if  one  stole  fruit  or  ran  away  from  school. 
Then  there  was  some  one  to  object,  and  consequences ; 
but  if  one  had  fun  with  Jeffy  there  was  none  to  ob- 
ject but  Jeffy,  and,  of  course,  he  didn't  count. 

"Is  my  son  here,  Clarence?"  asked  Roger  Oakley. 

"  Nope.  The  whistle  ain't  blowed  yet.  I  am  try- 
ing to  get  the  place  cleaned  up  before  he  comes 
down,"  making  slaps  at  the  desks  and  chairs  with 
a  large  wet  cloth.  "What  you  going  to  do  with 
him,  Mr.  Oakley?" 

He  nodded  towards  Jeffy,  who  seemed  awed  by  the 
unaccustomedness  of  his  surroundings,  for  he  kept 
himself  hidden  back  of  the  old  man,  his  battered 
and  brimless  straw  hat  held  nervously  in  his  trem- 
bling fingers. 

"I  am  going  to  get  work  for  him." 

"Him  work!  Him!  Why,  he  don't  want  no 
work,  Mr.  Oakley.  He's  too  strong  to  work."  And 
Clarence  went  off  into  gales  of  merriment  at  the 
mere  idea. 

For  an  instant  Jeffy  gazed  in  silence  at  the  boy 
with  quickly  mounting  wrath,  then  he  said,  in  a 
hoarse  tremolo: 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"You  durned  little  loafer!  Don't  you  give  me 
none  of  your  lip!" 

Clarence  had  sufficiently  subsided  to  remark, 
casually:  "The  old  man  'd  like  to  know  what  you 
got  for  that  horse-blanket  and  whip  you  stole  from 
our  barn.  You're  a  bird,  you  are!  When  he  was 
willing  to  let  you  sleep  in  the  barn  because  he  was 
sorry  for  you!" 

"You  lie,  durn  you!"  fiercely.  "I  didn't  steal  no 
whip  or  horse-blanket!" 

"  Yes,  you  did,  too !  The  old  man  found  out  who 
you  sold  'em  to/'  smiling  with  exasperating  cool- 
ness. 

The  outcast  turned  to  Roger  Oakley.  "  Nobody's 
willing  to  let  by-gones  be  by-gones,"  and  two  large 
tears  slid  from  his  moist  eyes.  Then  his  manner 
changed  abruptly.  He  became  defiant,  and,  step- 
ing  from  behind  his  protector,  shook  a  long  and  very 
dirty  forefinger  in  Clarence's  face. 

"  You  just  tell  Chris  Berry  this  from  me — I'm  done 
with  him.  I  don't  like  no  sneaks,  and  you  just  tell 
him  this — he  sha'n't  never  bury  me." 

"I  reckon  he  ain't  sweatin'  to  bury  any  paupers," 
hastily  interjected  the  grinning  Clarence.  "  The  old 
man  ain't  in  the  business  for  his  health." 

"  And  if  he  don't  stop  slandering  me  " — his  voice 
shot  up  out  of  its  huskiness — "  if  he  don't  stop  slan- 
dering me,  I'll  fix  him!"  He  turned  again  to  Roger 
Oakley.  "Them  Berrys  is  a  low-lived  lot!  I  hope 
you  won't  never  have  doings  with  'em.  They'll 
smile  in  your  face  and  then  do  you  dirt  behind  your 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

back;  I've  done  a  lot  for  Chris  Berry,  but  I'm  durned 
if  I  ever  lift  my  hand  for  him  again." 

Perhaps  he  was  too  excited  to  specify  the  exact 
nature  of  the  benefits  which  he  had  conferred  upon 
the  undertaker.  Clarence  ignored  the  attack  upon 
his  family.  He  contented  himself  with  remarking, 
judiciously : 

"Anybody  who  can  slander  you  's  got  a  future 
ahead  of  him.  He's  got  unusual  gifts." 

Here  Roger  Oakley  saw  fit  to  interfere  in  behalf  of 
his  protege.  He  shook  his  head  in  grave  admoni- 
tion at  the  grinning  youngster.  "  Jeffy  is  going  to 
make  a  man  of  himself.  It's  not  right  to  remember 
these  things  against  him." 

"They  know  rotten  well  that's  what  I'm  always 
telling  'em.  Let  by-gones  be  by-gones — that's  my 
motto — but  they  are  so  ornery  they  won't  never  give 
me  a  chance." 

"  It's  going  to  be  a  great  shock  to  the  community 
when  Jeffy  starts  to  work,  Mr.  Oakley,"  observed 
Clarence,  politely.  "  He's  never  done  anything  hard- 
er than  wheel  smoke  from  the  gas-house.  Where  you 
going  to  put  up,  Jeffy,  when  you  get  your  wages?" 

"None  of  your  durn  lip!"  screamed  Jeffy,  white 
with  rage. 

"  I  suppose  you'll  want  to  return  the  horse-blanket 
and  whip.  You  can  leave  'em  here  with  me.  I'll 
take  'em  home  to  the  old  man,"  remarked  the  boy, 
affably. 

"  I  wouldn't  trust  you  with  ten  cents ;  you  knovr 
mighty  well  I  wouldn't,"  retorted  Jeffy. 

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The   Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"Good  reason  why — you  ain't  never  had  that 
much." 

Dan  Oakley's  step  was  heard  approaching  the 
door,  and  the  wordy  warfare  ceased  abruptly.  Clar- 
ence got  out  of  the  way  as  quickly  as  possible,  for  he 
feared  he  might  be  asked  to  do  something,  and  he 
had  other  plans  for  the  morning. 

Jeff  y  was  handed  over  to  McClintock's  tender  mer- 
cies, who  put  him  to  work  in  the  yards. 

It  was  pay-day  in  the  car-shops,  and  Oakley  post- 
ed a  number  of  notices  in  conspicuous  places  about 
the  works.  They  announced  a  ten-per-cent.  reduc- 
tion in  the  wages  of  the  men,  the  cut  to  go  into  effect 
immediately. 

By-and-by  McClintock  came  in  from  the  yards. 
He  was  hot  and  perspiring,  and  his  check  shirt  clung 
moistly  to  his  powerful  shoulders.  As  he  crossed 
to  the  water-cooler,  he  said  to  Dan : 

"  Well,  we've  lost  him  already.  I  guess  he  wasn't 
keen  for  work." 

Oakley  looked  up  inquiringly  from  the  letter  he 
was  writing. 

"I  mean  Jeffy.  He  stuck  to  it  for  a  couple  of 
hours,  and  then  Pete  saw  him  making  a  sneak 
through  the  cornfield  towards  the  crick.  I  haven't 
told  your  father  yet." 

Dan  laughed. 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  that  way.  Have  you  seen 
the  notices?" 

"Yes,"  nodding. 

"Heard  anything  from  the  men  yet?" 

100 


f 
The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"Not  a  word." 

McClintock  returned  to  the  yards.  It  was  the 
noon  hour,  and  in  the  shade  of  one  of  the  sheds  he 
found  a  number  of  the  hands  at  lunch,  who  lived  too 
far  from  the  shops  to  go  home  to  dinner. 

"Say,  Milt,"  said  one  of  these,  "have  you  tum- 
bled to  the  notices? — ten  per  cent,  all  round.  You'll 
be  having  to  go  down  in  your  sock  for  coin." 

"It's  there  all  right,"  cheerfully. 

"I  knew  when  Cornish  came  down  here  there 
would  be  something  drop  shortly.  I  ain't  never 
known  it  to  fail.  The  old  skinflint!  I'll  bet  he 
ain't  losing  any  money." 

"You  bet  he  ain't,  not  he,"  said  a  second,  with  a 
short  laugh. 

The  first  man,  Branyon  by  name,  bit  carefully 
into  the  wedge-shaped  piece  of  pie  he  was  hold- 
ing in  his  hand.  "  If  I  was  as  rich  as  Cornish 
I'm  damned  if  I'd  be  such  an  infernal  stiff!  What 
the  hell  good  is  his  money  doing  him,  any- 
how?" 

"  What  does  the  boss  say,  Milt?" 

"  That  wages  will  go  back  as  soon  as  he  can  put 
them  back." 

"Yes,  they  will!  Like  fun!"  said  Branyon,  sar- 
castically. 

"You're  a  lot  of  kickers,  you  are,"  commented 
McClintock,  good-naturedly.  "You  don't  believe 
for  one  minute,  do  you,  that  the  Huckleberry  or  the 
shops  ever  earned  a  dollar?" 

"You  can  gamble  on  it  that  they  ain't  ever  cost 

101 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

Cornish  a  red  cent/'  said  Branyon,  as  positively  as 
a  mouthful  of  pie  would  allow. 

"I  wouldn't  be  too  sure  about  that/'  said  the  mas- 
ter-mechanic, walking  on. 

"I  bet  he  ain't  out  none  on  this,"  remarked  Bran- 
yon,  cynically.  "If  he  was  he  wouldn't  take  it  so 
blamed  easy." 

The  men  began  to  straggle  back  from  their  various 
homes  and  to  form  in  little  groups  about  the  yards 
and  in  the  shops.  They  talked  over  the  cut  and 
argued  the  merits  of  the  case,  as  men  will,  made 
their  comments  on  Cornish,  who  was  generally  con- 
ceded to  be  as  mean  in  money  matters  as  he  was 
fortunate,  and  then  went  back  to  their  work  when 
the  one -o'clock  whistle  blew,  in  a  state  of  high 
good  -  humor  with  themselves  and  their  critical 
ability. 

The  next  day  the  Herald  dealt  with  the  situation 
at  some  length.  The  whole  tone  of  the  editorial 
was  rancorous  and  bitter.  It  spoke  of  the  parsi- 
mony of  the  new  management,  which  had  been 
instanced  by  a  number  of  recent  dismissals  among 
men  who  had  served  the  road  long  and  faithfully, 
and  who  deserved  other  and  more  considerate  treat- 
ment. It  declared  that  the  cut  was  but  the  be- 
ginning of  the  troubles  in  store  for  the  hands,  and 
characterized  it  as  an  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  new 
management  to  curry  favor  with  Cornish,  who  was 
notoriously  hostile  to  the  best  interests  of  labor.  It 
wound  up  by  regretting  that  the  men  were  not  or- 
ganized, as  proper  organization  would  have  enabled 

102 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

them  to  meet  this  move  on  the  part  of  the  manage- 
ment. 

When  Oakley  read  the  obnoxious  editorial  his 
blood  grew  hot  and  his  mood  belligerent.  It  showed 
evident  and  unusual  care  in  the  preparation,  and 
he  guessed  correctly  that  it  had  been  written  and 
put  in  type  in  readiness  for  the  cut.  It  was  a  direct 
personal  attack,  too,  for  the  expression  "the  new 
management/'  which  was  used  over  and  over,  could 
mean  but  the  one  thing. 

Dan's  first  impulse  was  to  hunt  Ryder  up  and  give 
him  a  sound  thrashing,  but  his  better  sense  told  him 
that  while  this  rational  mode  of  expressing  his  in- 
dignation would  have  been  excusable  enough  a  few 
years  back,  when  he  was  only  a  brakeman,  as  the 
manager  of  the  Buckhorn  and  Antioch  Railroad  it 
was  necessary  to  pursue  a  more  pacific  policy. 

He  knew  he  could  be  made  very  unpopular  if  these 
attacks  were  persisted  in.  This  he  did  not  mind 
especially,  except  as  it  would  interfere  with  the  car- 
rying out  of  his  plans  and  increase  his  difficulties. 
After  thinking  it  over  he  concluded  that  he  would 
better  see  Ryder  and  have  a  talk  with  him.  It  would 
do  no  harm,  he  argued,  and  it  might  do  some  good, 
provided,  of  course,  that  he  could  keep  his  temper. 

He  went  directly  to  the  Herald  office,  and  found 
Griff  in  and  alone.  When  Dan  strode  into  the  office, 
looking  rather  warm,  the  latter  turned  a  trifle  pale, 
for  he  had  his  doubts  about  the  manager's  temper, 
and  no  doubts  at  all  about  his  muscular  develop- 
ment, which  was  imposing. 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"  I  came  in  to  see  what  you  meant  by  this,  Ryder/' 
his  caller  said,  and  he  held  out  the  paper  folded  to 
the  insulting  article.  Ryder  assumed  to  examine  it 
carefully,  but  he  knew  every  word  there. 

"Oh,  this?  Oh  yes!  The  story  of  the  reduction 
in  wages  down  at  the  car-shops.  There !  You  can 
take  it  from  under  my  nose;  I  can  see  quite  clearly." 

"Well?" 

"Well/'  repeated  Ryder  after  him,  with  exasper- 
ating composure.  The  editor  was  no  stranger  to 
intrusions  of  this  sort,  for  his  sarcasms  were  fre- 
quently personal.  His  manner  varied  to  suit  each 
individual  case.  When  the  wronged  party  stormed 
into  the  office,  wrathful  and  loud-lunged,  he  was 
general^  willing  to  make  prompt  reparation,  es- 
pecially if  his  visitor  had  the  advantage  of  physical 
preponderance  on  his  side.  When,  however,  the 
caller  was  uncertain  and  palpably  ih  awe  of  him, 
as  sometimes  happened,  he  got  no  sort  of  satisfac- 
tion. With  Oakley  he  pursued  a  middle  course. 

"Well?"  he  repeated. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  this?" 

"I  think  it  speaks  for  itself,  don't  you?" 

"  I  went  into  this  matter  with  you,  and  you  know 
as  wrell  as  I  do  why  the  men  are  cut.  This,"  striking 
the  paper  contemptuously  with  his  open  hand,  "is 
the  worst  sort  of  rubbish,  but  it  may  serve  to  make 
the  men  feel  that  they  are  being  wronged,  and  it  is 
an  attack  on  me." 

"  Did  you  notice  that?  I  didn't  know  but  it  was 
too  subtle  for  you." 

104 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

He  couldn't  resist  the  gibe  at  Oakley's  expense. 

"  Disguised,  of  course,  but  intended  to  give  the  men 
less  confidence  in  me.  Now,  Fm  not  going  to  stand 
any  more  of  this  sort  of  thing!" 

He  was  conscious  he  had  brought  his  remarks  to 
a  decidedly  lame  conclusion. 

"And  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  Mr.  Oakley,  I'm  ed- 
itor of  the  Herald,  and  I  don't  allow  any  man  to 
dictate  to  me  what  I  shall  print.  That's  a  point  I'll 
pass  on  for  myself." 

"You  know  the  situation.  You  know  that  the 
general  will  dispose  of  his  interests  here  unless  they 
can  be  made  self-sustaining;  and,  whether  3Tou  like 
him  or  not,  he  stands  as  a  special  providence  to  the 
town." 

"I  only  know  what  you  have  told  me,"  sneer- 
ingly. 

Oakley  bit  his  lips.  He  saw  it  would  have  been 
better  to  have  left  Ryder  alone.  He  felt  his  own 
weakness,  and  his  inability  to  force  him  against  his 
will  to  be  fair.  He  gulped  down  his  anger  and 
chagrin. 

"1  don't  see  what  you  can  gain  by  stirring  up 
this  matter." 

"Perhaps  you  don't." 

"Am  I  to  understand  you  are  hostile  to  the 
road?" 

"If  that  means  you — yes.  You  haven't  helped 
yourself  by  coming  here  as  though  you  could  bully 
me  into  your  way  of  thinking.  I  didn't  get  much 
satisfaction  from  my  call  on  you.  You  let  me  know 

105 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

you  could  attend  to  your  own  affairs,  and  I  can  at- 
tend to  mine  just  as  easily.  I  hope  you  appreciate 
that." 

Dan  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the  office,  cursing 
himself  for  his  stupidity  in  having  given  the  editor 
an  opportunity  to  get  even. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN  the  course  of  the  next  few  days  Dan  decided  that 
there  was  no  danger  of  trouble  from  the  hands. 
Things  settled  back  into  their  accustomed  rut.  He 
was  only  a  little  less  popular,  perhaps. 

He  was  indebted  to  Clarence  for  the  first  warning 
he  received  as  to  what  was  in  store  for  him. 

It  came  about  in  this  way.  Clarence  had  retired 
to  the  yards,  where,  secure  from  observation,  he  was 
indulging  in  a  quiet  smoke,  furtively  keeping  an 
eye  open  for  McClintock,  whose  movements  were  un- 
certain, as  he  knew  from  sad  experience. 

A  high  board  fence  was  in  front  of  him,  shutting 
off  the  yards  from  the  lower  end  of  the  town.  At  his 
back  was  a  freight  car,  back  of  that  again  were  the 
interlacing  tracks,  and  beyond  them  a  cornfield 
and  Billup's  Fork,  with  its  inviting  shade  of  syca- 
mores and  willows  and  its  tempting  swimming-holes. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  scrambling  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  fence,  and  ten  brown  fingers  clutched  the 
tops  of  the  boards,  then  a  battered  straw  hat  came  on 
a  level  with  the  fingers,  at  the  same  instant  a  bare 
foot  and  leg  were  thrown  over  the  fence,  and  the  own- 
er of  the  battered  straw  hat  swung  himself  into  view. 
All  this  while  a  dog  whined  and  yelped ;  then  f  ollow- 

107 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

ed  a  vigorous  scratching  sound,  and  presently  a  small, 
dilapidated -looking  yellow  cur  squeezed  itself  be- 
neath the  fence.  Clarence  recognized  the  intruders. 
It  was  Branyon's  boy,  Augustus,  commonly  called 
"Spide/'  because  of  his  exceeding  slimness  and  the 
length  of  his  legs,  and  his  dog  Pink. 

As  soon  as  Branyon's  boy  saw  Clarence  he  bal- 
anced himself  deftly  on  the  top  of  the  fence  with  one 
hand  and  shaded  his  eyes  elaborately  with  the  other. 
An  amiable,  if  toothless,  smile  curled  his  lips.  When 
he  spoke  it  was  with  deep  facetiousness. 

"Hi!  come  out  from  behind  that  roll  of  paper!" 

But  Clarence  said  not  a  word.  He  puffed  away 
at  his  cigarette,  apparently  oblivious  of  everything 
save  the  contentment  it  gave  him,  and  as  he  puffed 
Spide's  mouth  worked  and  watered  sympathetically. 
His  secret  admiration  was  tremendous.  Here  was 
Clarence  in  actual  and  undisturbed  possession  of  a 
whole  cigarette.  He  had  to  purchase  his  cigarettes 
in  partnership  with  some  other  boy,  and  go  halves 
on  the  smoking  of  them.  It  made  him  feel  cheap 
and  common. 

"  Say  !  got  one  of  them  coffin-tacks  that  ain't 
working?"  he  inquired.  Clarence  gazed  off  up  the 
tracks,  ignoring  the  question  and  the  questioner. 
Spide's  presence  was  balm  to  his  soul.  But  as  one 
of  the  office  force  of  the  Buckhorn  and  Antioch  he 
felt  a  certain  lofty  reserve  to  be  incumbent  upon  him. 
Besides,  he  and  Spide  had  been  engaged  in  a  recent 
rivalry  for  Susie  Poppleton's  affections.  It  is  true 
he  had  achieved  a  brilliant  success  over  his  rival, 

108 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

but  that  a  mere  school-boy  should  have  ventured  to 
oppose  him,  a  salaried  man,  had  struck  him  as  an 
unpardonable  piece  of  impertinence  for  which  there 
could  be  no  excuse. 

Spide,  however,  had  taken  the  matter  most  phil- 
osophically. He  had  recognized  that  he  could  not 
hope  to  compete  with  a  youth  who  possessed  unlim- 
ited wealth,  which  he  was  willing  to  lay  out  on  chew- 
ing-gum and  candy,  his  experience  being  that  the 
sex  was  strictly  mercenary  and  incapable  of  a  disin- 
terested love.  Of  course  he  had  much  admired  Miss 
Poppleton ;  from  the  crown  of  her  small  dark  head, 
with  its  tightly  braided  "pig-tails,"  down  to  her  trim 
little  foot  he  had  esteemed  her  as  wholly  adorable; 
but,  after  all,  his  affair  of  the  heart  had  been  an  af- 
fair of  the  winter  only.  With  the  coming  of  summer 
he  had  found  more  serious  things  to  think  of.  He 
was  learning  to  swim  and  to  chew  tobacco.  The 
mastering  of  these  accomplishments  pretty  well  oc- 
cupied his  time. 

"Say!"  he  repeated,  "got  another?" 

Still  Clarence  blinked  at  the  fierce  sunlight  which 
danced  on  the  rails,  and  said  nothing.  Spide  slid 
skilfully  down  from  his  perch,  but  his  manner  had 
undergone  a  change. 

"Who  throwed  that  snipe  away,  anyhow?"  he 
asked,  disdainfully.  Clarence  turned  his  eyes  slow- 
ly in  his  direction. 

"Lookee  here.  You  fellows  got  to  keep  out  of 
these  yards,  or  I'll  tell  McClintock.  First  we  know 
some  of  you  kids  will  be  getting  run  over,  and  then 

109 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

your  folks  will  set  up  a  lively  howl.     Get  on  out!    It 
ain't  no  place  for  little  boys!" 

He  put  the  cigarette  between  his  lips  and  took  a 
deep  and  tantalizing  pull  at  it.  Spide  kept  to  his 
own  side  of  the  ditch  that  ran  between  the  fence  and 
the  tracks. 

"Huh!"  with  infinite  scorn.  "Who's  a  kid? 
You  won't  be  happy  till  I  come  over  there  and  lick 
you!" 

"  First  thing  I  know  you'll  be  stealing  scrap  iron!" 

"My  gosh!  The  Huckleberry  'd  have  to  stop 
running  if  I  swiped  a  coupling-pin!" 

Clarence  had  recourse  to  the  cigarette,  and  again 
Spide  was  consumed  with  torturing  jealousies. 
"Where  did  you  shoot  that  snipe,  anyhow?"  he  in- 
quired, insultingly. 

Once  more  Clarence  allowed  his  glance  to  stray 
off  up  the  tracks. 

"For  half  a  cent  I'd  come  across  and  do  what  I 
say!"  added  Spide,  stooping  down  to  roll  up  his 
trousers  leg,  and  then  easing  an  unelastic  "  gallus  " 
that  cut  his  shoulders.  This  elicited  a  short  and 
contemptuous  grunt  from  Clarence.  He  was  well 
pleased  with  himself.  He  felt  Spide's  envy.  It  was 
sweet  and  satisfying. 

"Say!"  with  sudden  animation.  "You  fellers 
will  be  going  around  on  your  uppers  in  a  day  or  so. 
I'll  bet  you'd  give  a  heap  to  know  what  I  know!" 

"I  wouldn't  give  a  darned  cent  to  know  all 
you  know  or  ever  will  know!"  retorted  Clarence, 
promptly. 

HO 


The  Manager  of  the  B.   &  A. 

"Some  people's  easily  upset  here  in  the  cupola/' 
tapping  his  brimless  covering.  "I  wouldn't  want 
to  give  you  brain -fever;  I  don't  hate  you  bad 
enough." 

"Well,  move  on.  You  ain't  wanted  around  here. 
It  may  get  me  into  trouble  if  I'm  seen  fooling  away 
my  time  on  you." 

"I  hope  to  hell  it  will,"  remarked  Branyon's  boy, 
Augustus,  with  cordial  ill-will  and  fluent  profanity. 
He  was  not  a  good  little  boy.  He  himself  would 
have  been  the  first  to  spurn  the  idea  of  personal 
sanctity.  But  he  was  literally  bursting  with  the 
importance  of  the  facts  which  he  possessed,  and 
Clarence's  indifference  gave  him  no  opening. 

"  What  will  you  bet  there  ain't  a  strike?" 

"I  ain't  betting  this  morning,"  said  Clarence, 
blandly.  "But  if  there  is  one  we  are  ready  for  it. 
You  bet  the  hands  won't  catch  us  napping.  We  are 
ready  for  'em  any  time  and  all  the  time."  This,  de- 
livered with  a  large  air,  impressed  Spide  exceedingly. 

"  Have  you  sent  for  the  militia  a 'ready  ?"  he  asked, 
anxiously. 

"That's  saying,"  noting  the  effect  of  his  words. 
"  I  can't  go  blabbing  about,  telling  what  the  road's 
up  to,  but  we  are  awake,  and  the  hands  will  get  it  in 
the  neck  if  they  tackle  the  boss.  He's  got  darn  little 
use  for  laboring  men,  anyhow." 

To  Clarence,  Oakley  was  the  most  august  person 
he  had  ever  known.  He  religiously  believed  his 
position  to  be  only  second  in  point  of  importance  and 
power  to  that  of  the  President  of  the  United  States. 

in 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

He  was  wont  to  invest  him  with  purely  imaginary 
attributes,  and  to  lie  about  him  at  a  great  rate  among 
his  comrades,  who  were  ready  to  credit  any  report 
touching  a  man  who  was  reputed  to  be  able  to  ride 
on  the  cars  without  a  ticket.  Human  grandeur  had 
no  limits  beyond  this. 

"  There  was  a  meeting  last  night.  I  bet  you  didn't 
know  that,"  said  Spide. 

"I  heard  something  of  it.  Was  your  father  at 
the  meeting,  Spide?"  he  asked,  dropping  his  tone 
of  hostility  for  one  of  gracious  familiarity.  The 
urchin  promptly  crossed  the  ditch  and  stood  at  his 
side. 

"  Of  course  the  old  man  was.  You  don't  suppose 
he  wouldn't  be  in  it?" 

"Oh,  well,  let  'em  kick.  You  see  the  boss  is 
ready  for  'em,"  remarked  Clarence,  indifferently. 
He  wanted  to  know  what  Spide  knew,  but  he  didn't 
feel  that  he  could  afford  to  show  any  special  interest. 
"Where  you  going — swimming?"  he  added. 

"Yep."  But  Spide  was  not  ready  to  drop  the 
fascinating  subject  of  the  strike.  He  wished  to  as- 
tonish Clarence,  who  was  altogether  too  knowing. 

"The  meeting  was  in  the  room  over  Jack  Britt's 
saloon,"  he  volunteered. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  we  didn't  know  that  up  at 
the  office.  We  got  our  spies  out.  There  ain't  noth- 
ing the  hands  can  do  we  ain't  on  to." 

Spide  wrote  his  initials  in  the  soft  bank  of  the 
ditch  with  his  big  toe,  while  he  meditated  on  what  he 
could  tell  next. 

112 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"Well,  sir,  you'd  'a'  been  surprised  if  you'd  'a1 
been  there." 

"Was  you  there,  Spide?" 

"Yep." 

"Oh,  come  off;  you  can't  stuff  me." 

"  I  was,  too,  there.  The  old  lady  sent  me  down  to 
fetch  pap  home.  She  was  afraid  he'd  get  full.  Joe 
Stokes  was  there,  and  Lou  Bentick,  and  a  whole  slew 
of  others,  and  Griff  Ryder." 

Clarence  gasped  with  astonishment.  "Why,  he 
ain't  one  of  the  hands." 

"Well,  he's  on  their  side." 

"  What  you  giving  us?" 

"Say,  they  are  going  to  make  a  stiff  kick  on  old 
man  Oakley  working  in  the  shops.  They  got  it  in 
for  him  good  and  strong."  He  paused  to  weigh 
the  effect  of  this,  and  then  went  on  rapidly :  "  He's 
done  something.  Ryder  knows  about  it.  He  told 
my  old  man  and  Joe  Stokes.  They  say  he's  got 
to  get  out.  What's  a  convicted  criminal,  any- 
how?" 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  that  for,  Spide?" 
questioned  the  artful  Clarence,  with  great  presence 
of  mind. 

"  Well,  that's  what  old  man  Oakley  is.  I  heard 
Ryder  say  so  myself,  and  pap  and  Joe  Stokes  just 
kicked  themselves  because  they  hadn't  noticed  it 
before,  I  suppose.  My!  but  they  were  hot!  Say, 
you'll  see  fun  to-morrow.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised 
if  they  sent  you  all  a-kiting." 

Clarence  was  swelling  with  the  desire  to  tell  Oak- 
H  113 


The  Manager   of  the  B.  &  A. 

ley  what  he  had  heard.  He  took  the  part  of  a  pack 
of  cigarettes  from  his  pocket. 

"  Have  one?"  he  said. 

Spide  promptly  availed  himself  of  his  compan- 
ion's liberality. 

"Well,  so  long/'  the  latter  added.  "I  got  to  get 
back/'  and  a  moment  later  he  might  have  been 
seen  making  his  way  cautiously  in  the  direction  of 
the  office,  while  Spide,  his  battered  hat  under  his 
arm,  and  the  cigarette  clutched  in  one  hand,  was 
skipping  gayly  across  the  cornfield  towards  the  creek 
followed  by  Pink.  He  was  bound  for  the  "  Slidy/'  a 
swimming-hole  his  mother  had  charged  him  on  no 
account  to  visit.  Under  these  peculiar  circum- 
stances it  was  quite  impossible  for  him  to  consider 
any  other  spot.  Nowhere  else  was  the  shade  so 
cool  and  dense,  nowhere  else  did  the  wild  mint  scent 
the  summer  air  with  such  seductive  odors,  and 
Tiowhere  else  were  such  social  advantages  to  be 
found. 

There  were  always  big  boys  hanging  about  the 
"Slidy"  who  played  cards  and  fished  and  loafed, 
but  mostly  loafed,  because  it  was  the  easiest,  and 
here  Mr.  Tink  Brown,  Jeffy's  logical  successor  and 
unofficial  heir  apparent,  held  court  from  the  first  of 
June  to  the  last  of  August.  The  charm  of  his  so- 
ciety no  respectable  small  boy  was  able  to  withstand. 
His  glittering  indecencies  made  him  a  sort  of  hero, 
and  his  splendid  lawless  state  was  counted  worthy 
of  emulation. 

But  Spide  discovered  that  the  way  of  the  trans- 
114 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

gressor  is  sometimes  as  hard  as  the  moralists  would 
have  us  believe. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  the  season,  and  a  group 
of  boys,  in  easy  undress,  were  clustered  on  the  bank 
above  the  swimming-hole.  They  were  "going  in" 
as  soon  as  an  important  question  should  be  decided. 

The  farmer  whose  fields  skirted  Billup's  Fork  at 
this  point  usually  filled  in  the  "  Slidy  "  every  spring 
with  bits  of  rusty  barb-wire  and  osage-orange  cut- 
tings. The  youth  of  Antioch  who  were  prejudiced 
maintained  that  he  did  it  to  be  mean,  but  the  real 
reason  was  that  he  wished  to  discourage  the  swim- 
mers, who  tramped  his  crops  and  stole  his  great 
yellow  pumpkins  to  play  with  in  the  water. 

The  time-honored  method  of  determining  the  con- 
dition of  the  hole  was  beautifully  simple.  It  was  to 
catch  a  small  boy  and  throw  him  in,  and  until  this 
rite  was  performed  the  big  boys  used  the  place  but 
gingerly.  Mr.  Brown  and  his  friends  were  waiting 
for  this  small  boy  to  happen  along,  when  the  un- 
suspecting Spide  ran  down  the  bank.  He  was 
promptly  seized  by  the  mighty  Tink. 

"Been  in  yet,  Spide?"  asked  his  captor,  genially. 

"Nope."  * 

"Then  this  is  your  chance."  Whereat  Spide  be- 
gan to  cry.  He  didn't  want  to  go  in.  All  at  once  he 
remembered  he  had  promised  his  mother  he  wouldn't 
and  that  his  father  had  promised  him  a  licking  if  he 
did — two  excellent  reasons  why  he  should  stay  out — 
but  Tink  only  pushed  him  towards  the  water's  edge. 

"You're   hurting   me!     Lemme   alone,   you   big 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

loafer!  Lemme  go,  or  I'll  tell  the  old  man  on  you!'' 
and  he  scratched  and  clawed,  but  Tink  merely 
laughed,  and  the  other  boys  advised  him  to  "  chuck 
the  little  shaver  in." 

"Lemme  take  off  my  shirt  and  pants!  Lemme 
take  off  my  pants — just  my  pants,  Tink!"  he  en- 
treated. 

But  he  was  raised  on  high  and  hurled  out  into 
the  stream  where  the  sunlight  flashed  among  the 
shadows  cast  by  the  willows.  His  hat  went  one  way 
and  his  cigarette  another.  Pink  was  considerately 
tossed  after  him,  and  all  his  earthly  possessions 
were  afloat. 

There  was  a  splash,  and  he  disappeared  from 
sight  to  reappear  a  second  later,  with  streaming  hair 
and  dripping  face. 

"  How  is  it?"  chorussed  the  big  boys,  who  were 
already  pulling  off  their  clothes,  as  they  saw  that 
neither  barb-wire  nor  osage-orange  brush  festooned 
the  swimmer. 

"Bully!"  ecstatically,  and  he  dived  dexterously 
into  the  crown  of  his  upturned  hat,  which  a  puff  of 
wind  had  sent  dancing  gayly  down-stream. 


"QAY!"  Clarence  blurted  out,  "there's  going  to 

O   be  a  strike!" 

Oakley  glanced  up  from  his  writing. 

"What's  that  you  are  telling  me,  Clarence?" 

"There's  going  to  be  a  strike,  Mr.  Oakley." 

Dan  smiled  good-naturedly  at  the  boy. 

"I  guess  that  has  blown  over,  Clarence/'  he  said, 
kindly. 

"  No,  it  ain't.  The  men  had  a  meeting  last  night. 
It  was  in  the  room  over  Jack  Britt's  saloon.  I've 
just  been  talking  with  a  fellow  who  was  there;  he 
told  me." 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Oakley,  pushing  a  chair  towards 
him. 

"Now,  what  is  it?"  as  soon  as  he  was  seated. 
And  Clarence,  editing  his  reminiscences  as  he  saw 
fit,  gave  a  tolerably  truthful  account  of  his  conver- 
sation with  Spide.  The  source  of  his  information, 
its  general  incompleteness,  and  the  frequent  di- 
vergences, occasioned  by  the  boy's  attempt  to  in- 
corporate into  the  narrative  a  satisfactory  reason 
for  his  own  presence  in  the  yards,  did  not  detract 
from  its  value  in  Oakley's  estimation.  The  mere 
fact  that  the  men  had  held  a  meeting  was  in  itself 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

significant.  Such  a  thing  was  new  to  Antioch,  as 
yet  unvisited  by  labor  troubles. 

"What  is  that  you  say  about  my  father?"  For 
he  had  rather  lost  track  of  the  story  and  caught  at 
the  sudden  mention  of  his  father's  name. 

"Spide  says  they  got  it  in  for  him.  I  can't  just 
remember  what  he  did  say.  It  was  something  or 
other  Griff  Ryder  knows  about  him.  It's  funny, 
but  it's  clean  gone  out  of  my  head,  Mr.  Oakley." 

Oakley  started.  What  could  Ryder  know  about 
his  father?  What  could  any  one  know? 

He  was  not  left  long  in  doubt.  The  next  morning, 
shortly  after  he  arrived  at  the  office,  he  heard  the 
heavy  shuffling  of  many  feet  on  the  narrow  platform 
outside  his  door,  and  a  deputation  from  the  carpenter- 
shop,  led  by  Joe  Stokes  and  Branyon,  entered  the 
room.  For  a  moment  or  so  the  men  stood  in  abashed 
silence  about  the  door,  and  then  moved  over  to  his 
desk. 

Oakley  pushed  back  his  chair,  and,  as  they  ap- 
proached, came  slowly  to  his  feet.  There  was  a  hint 
of  anger  in  his  eyes.  The  whole  proceeding  smacked 
of  insolence.  The  men  were  in  their  shirt-sleeves 
and  overalls,  and  had  on  their  hats.  Stokes  put  up 
his  hand  and  took  off  his  hat.  The  others  accepted 
this  as  a  signal,  and  one  after  another  removed 
theirs.  Then  followed  a  momentary  shuffling  as 
they  bunched  closer.  Several,  who  looked  as  if 
they  would  just  as  soon  be  somewhere  else,  breathed 
deep  and  hard.  The  office  force — Kerr,  Holt,  and 
Miss  Walton — suspended  their  various  tasks  and 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

stood  up  so  as  not  to  miss  anything  that  was  said  or 
done. 

"Well,  men,  what  is  it?"  asked  Oakley,  sharply 
— so  sharply  that  Clarence,  who  was  at  the  water- 
cooler,  started.  He  had  never  heard  the  manager 
use  that  tone  before. 

Stokes  took  a  step  forward  and  cleared  his  throat, 
as  if  to  speak.  Then  he  looked  at  his  comrades, 
who  looked  back  their  encouragement  at  him. 

"  We  want  a  word  with  you,  Mr.  Oakley,"  said  he. 

"What  have  you  to  say?" 

"Well,  sir,  we  got  a  grievance,"  began  Stokes, 
weakly,  but  Branyon  pushed  him  to  one  side  hastily 
and  took  his  place.  He  was  a  stockily  built  Irish- 
American,  with  plenty  of  nerve  and  a  loose  tongue. 
The  men  nudged  each  other.  They  knew  Mike 
would  have  his  say. 

"  It's  just  this,  Mr.  Oakley :  There's  a  man  in  the 
carpenter-shop  who's  got  to  get  out.  We  won't  work 
with  him  no  longer!" 

"That's  right,"  muttered  one  or  two  of  the  men 
under  their  breath. 

"Whom  do  you  mean?"  asked  Oakley,  and  his 
tone  was  tense  and  strenuous,  for  he  knew.  There 
was  an  awkward  silence.  Branyon  fingered  his  hat 
a  trifle  nervously.  At  last  he  said,  doggedly : 

"The  man  who's  got  to  go  is  your  father." 

"Why?"  asked  Oakley,  sinking  his  voice.  He 
guessed  what  was  coming  next,  but  the  question 
seemed  dragged  from  him.  He  had  to  ask  it. 

"We  got  nothing  against  you,  Mr.  Oakley,  but 
119 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

we  won't  work  in  the  same  shop  with  a  convicted 
criminal." 

"  That's  right/'  muttered  the  chorus  of  men  again. 

Oakley's  face  flushed  scarlet.  Then  every  scrap 
of  color  left  it. 

"Get  out  of  here!"  he  ordered,  hotly. 

"Don't  we  get  our  answer?"  demanded  Branyon. 

While  the  interview  was  in  progress,  McClintock 
had  entered,  and  now  stood  at  the  opposite  end  of  the 
room,  an  attentive  listener. 

"No,"  cried  Oakley,  hoarsely.  "I'll  put  whom  I 
please  to  work  in  the  shops.  Leave  the  room  all  of 
you!" 

The  men  retreated  before  his  fury,  their  self-con- 
fidence rather  dashed  by  it.  One  by  one  they  backed 
sheepishly  out  of  the  door,  Branyon  being  the  last  to 
leave.  As  he  quitted  the  room  he  called  to  Dan : 

"  We'll  give  you  until  to-morrow  to  think  it  over, 
but  the  old  man's  got  to  go." 

McClintock  promptly  followed  Branyon,  and  Clar- 
ence darted  after  him.  He  was  in  time  to  wit- 
ness the  uncorking  of  the  master-mechanic's  vials 
of  wrath,  and  to  hear  the  hot  exchange  of  words 
which  followed. 

"  You  can  count  your  days  with  the  Hucklebeny 
numbered,  Branyon,"  he  said.  "I'm  damned  if  I'll 
have  you  under  me  after  this." 

"  We'll  see  about  that,"  retorted  Branyon,  roughly. 
"Talk's  cheap." 

"What's  the  old  man  ever  done  to  you,  you  in- 
fernal loafer?" 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"Shut  up,  Milt,  and  keep  your  shirt  on!"  said 
Stokes,  in  what  he  intended  should  be  conciliatory 
tones.  "  We  only  want  our  rights." 

"  We'll  have  'em,  too,"  said  BranjTon,  shaking  his 
head  ominously.  "We  ain't  Dagoes  or  Pollacks. 
We're  American  mechanics,  and  we  know  our  rights." 

"  You're  a  sneak,  Branyon.  What's  he  ever  done 
to  you?" 

"Oh,  you  go  to  hell!"  ruffling  up  his  shirt-sleeves. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  McClintock,  his  gray  eyes  flash- 
ing, "you  needn't  be  so  particular  about  the  old 
man's  record.  You  know  as  much  about  the  inside 
of  a  prison  as  he  does." 

"You're  a  damn  liar!"  Nevertheless  McClintock 
spoke  only  the  truth.  At  Branyon 's  last  word  he 
smashed  his  fist  into  the  middle  of  the  carpenter's 
sour  visage  with  a  heavy,  sickening  thud.  No  man 
called  him  a  liar  and  got  away  with  it. 

"Geel"  gasped  the  closely  attentive  but  criti- 
cal Clarence.  "What  a  soaker!"  Branyon  fell  up 
against  the  side  of  the  building  near  which  they  were 
standing.  Otherwise  he  would  have  gone  his  length 
upon  the  ground,  and  the  hands  rushed  in  between 
the  two  men. 

Stokes  and  Bentick  dragged  their  friend  away  by 
main  strength.  The  affair  had  gone  far  enough. 
They  didn't  want  a  fight. 

McClintock  marched  into  the  office,  crossed  to  the 
water-cooler,  and  filled  himself  a  tumbler;  then  he 
turned  an  unruffled  front  on  Oakley. 

"I  guess  we'd  better  chuck  those  fellows — fire  'em 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

out  bodily,  the  impudent  cusses !  What  do  you  say, 
Mr.  Oakley?" 

But  Dan  was  too  demoralized  to  consider  or  even 
reply  to  this.  He  was  feeling  a  burning  sense  of 
shame  and  disgrace.  The  whole  town  must  know 
his  father's  history,  or  some  garbled  version  of  it. 
Worse  still,  Constance  Emory  must  know.  The 
pride  of  his  respectability  was  gone  from  him.  He 
felt  that  he  had  cheated  the  world  of  a  place  to  which 
he  had  no  right,  and  now  he  was  found  out.  He 
could  not  face  Kerr,  nor  Holt,  nor  McClintock. 
But  this  was  only  temporary.  He  couldn't  stand 
among  his  ruins.  Men  survive  disgrace  and  outlive 
shame  just  as  they  outlive  sorrow  and  suffering. 
Nothing  ever  stops.  Then  he  recognized  that, 
since  his  secret  had  been  wrested  from  him,  there 
was  no  longer  discovery  to  fear.  A  sense  of  freedom 
and  relief  came  when  he  realized  this.  The  worst 
had  happened,  and  he  could  still  go  on.  How  the 
men  had  learned  about  his  father  he  could  not  un- 
derstand, but  instinct  told  him  he  had  Ryder  to 
thank.  Following  up  the  clew  Kenyon  had  given 
him,  he  had  carefully  looked  into  Roger  Oakley's 
record,  a  matter  that  simply  involved  a  little  cor- 
respondence. 

He  had  told  Branyon  and  Stokes  only  what  he 
saw  fit,  and  had  pledged  himself  to  support  the  men 
in  whatever  action  they  took.  He  would  drive  Oak- 
ley out  of  Antioch.  That  was  one  of  his  motives; 
he  was  also  bent  on  cultivating  as  great  a  measure 
of  personal  popularity  as  he  could.  It  would  be  use- 

122 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

ful  to  Kenyon,  and  so  advantageous  to  himself. 
The  Congressman  had  large  ambitions.  If  he 
brought  his  campaign  to  a  successful  issue  it  would 
make  him  a  power  in  the  State.  Counting  in  this 
victory,  Ryder  had  mapped  out  his  own  career. 
Kenyon  had  force  and  courage,  but  his  judgment 
and  tact  were  only  of  a  sort.  Ryder  aspired  to  sup- 
ply the  necessary  brains  for  his  complete  success. 
Needless  to  say,  Kenyon  knew  nothing  of  these 
benevolent  intentions  on  the  part  of  his  friend.  He 
could  not  possibly  have  believed  that  he  required 
anything  but  votes. 

Oakley  turned  to  Clarence. 

"  Run  into  the  carpenter-shop,  and  see  if  you  can 
find  my  father.  If  he  is  there,  ask  him  to  come  here 
to  me  at  once." 

The  boy  was  absent  only  a  few  moments.  Roger 
Oakley  had  taken  off  his  work  clothes  and  had  gone 
up-town  before  the  men  left  the  shop.  He  had  not 
returned. 

Dan  closed  his  desk  and  put  on  his  hat. 

"I  am  going  to  the  hotel/'  he  said  to  Kerr.  "If 
anybody  wants  to  see  me  you  can  tell  them  I'll  be 
back  this  afternoon." 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Oakley."  The  treasurer  was 
wondering  what  would  be  his  superior's  action. 
Would  he  resign  and  leave  Antioch,  or  would  he 
try  and  stick  it  out? 

Before  he  left  the  room,  Dan  said  to  McClintock : 

"  I  hope  you  won't  have  any  further  trouble,  Milt 
Better  keep  an  eye  on  that  fellow  Branyon." 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

McClintock  laughed  shortly,  but  made  no  answer, 
and  for  the  rest  of  the  morning  Clarence  dogged  his 
steps  in  the  hope  that  the  quarrel  would  be  continued 
under  more  favorable  circumstances.  In  this  he  was 
disappointed.  Branyon  had  been  induced  to  go 
home  for  repairs,  and  had  left  the  yards  immediately 
after  the  trouble  occurred,  with  a  wet  handkerchief 
held  gingerly  to  a  mashed  and  bloody  nose.  His 
fellows  had  not  shown  the  sympathy  he  felt  they 
should  have  shown  under  the  circumstances.  They 
told  him  he  had  had  enough,  and  that  it  was  well  to 
stop  with  that. 

Dan  hurried  up-town  to  the  hotel.  He  found  his 
father  in  his  room,  seated  before  an  open  window  in 
his  shirt-sleeves,  and  with  his  Bible  in  his  lap.  He 
glanced  up  from  the  book  as  his  son  pushed  open  the 
door. 

"  Well,  Dannie?"  he  said,  and  his  tones  were  mild, 
meditative,  and  inquiring. 

"I  was  looking  for  you,  father.  They  told  me 
you'd  come  up-town." 

"  So  I  did ;  as  soon  as  I  heard  there  was  going  to 
be  trouble  over  my  working  in  the  shops  I  left." 

"  Did  they  say  anything  to  you?" 

"  Not  a  word,  Dannie,  but  I  knew  what  was  com- 
ing, and  quit  work." 

"You  shouldn't  have  done  it,  daddy,"  said  Dan, 
seating  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  near  the  old 
man.  "I  can't  let  them  say  who  shall  work  in  the 
shops  and  who  not.  The  whole  business  was  trump- 
ed up  out  of  revenge  for  the  cut.  They  want  to  get 

124 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

even  with  me  for  that,  you  see.  If  I  back  down  and 
yield  this  point,  there  is  no  telling  what  they'll  ask 
next — probably  that  the  wages  be  restored  to  the  old 
figure." 

He  spoke  quite  cheerfully,  for  he  saw  his  father 
was  cruelly  hurt. 

"  It  was  all  a  mistake,  Dannie — my  coming  to  you, 
I  mean,"  Roger  Oakley  said,  shutting  the  book  rev- 
erently and  laying  it  to  one  side.  "The  world's 
a  small  place,  after  all,  and  we  should  have  known 
we  couldn't  keep  our  secret.  It's  right  I  should  bear 
my  own  cross,  but  it's  not  your  sin,  and  now  it 
presses  hardest  on  you.  I'm  sorry,  Dannie — "  and 
his  voice  shook  with  the  emotion  he  was  striving  to 
hide. 

"No,  no,  father.  To  have  you  here  has  been  a 
great  happiness  to  me." 

"Has  it,  Dannie?  has  it  really?"  with  a  quick 
smile.  "  I  am  glad  you  can  say  so,  for  it's  been  a 
great  happiness  to  me — greater  than  I  deserved," 
and  he  laid  a  big  hand  caressingly  on  his  son's. 

"We  must  go  ahead,  daddy,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  If  we  let  this  hurt  us,  we'll  end  by  losing 
all  our  courage." 

"It's  been  a  knock-out  blow  for  me,  Dannie,"  with 
a  wistful  sadness,  "and  I've  got  to  go  away.  It's 
best  for  you  I  should.  I've  gone  in  one  direction  and 
you've  gone  another.  You  can't  reconcile  opposites. 
I've  been  thinking  of  this  a  good  deal.  You're 
young,  and  got  your  life  ahead  of  you,  and  you'll  do 
big  things  before  you're  done,  and  people  will  forget. 

125 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

I  can't  drag  you  down  just  because  I  happen  to  be 
your  father  and  love  you.  Why,  I'm  of  a  different 
class  even,  but  I  can't  go  on.  I'm  just  as  I  am,  and 
I  can't  change  myself." 

"Why,  bless  your  heart,  daddy,"  cried  Dan,  "I 
wouldn't  have  you  changed.  You're  talking  non- 
sense. I  won't  let  you  go  away." 

"  But  the  girl,  Dannie,  the  girl — the  doctor's  daugh- 
ter 1  You  see  I  hear  a  lot  of  gossip  in  the  shop,  and 
even  if  you  haven't  told  me,  I  know." 

"We  may  as  well  count  that  at  an  end,"  said 
Dan,  quietly. 

"Do  you  think  of  leaving  here?" 

"  No.  If  I  began  by  running,  I'd  be  running  all  the 
rest  of  my  life.  I  shall  remain  until  I've  accomplished 
everything  I've  set  out  to  do,  if  it  takes  ten  years." 

"And  what  about  Miss  Emory,  Dannie?  If  you 
are  going  to  stay,  why  is  that  at  an  end?" 

"I  dare  say  she'll  marry  Mr.  Ryder.  Anyhow, 
she  won't  marry  me." 

"  But  I  thought  you  cared  for  her?" 

"I  do,  daddy." 

"  Then  why  do  you  give  up?  You're  as  good  as 
he  is  any  day." 

"  I'm  not  her  kind,  that's  all.  It  has  nothing  to  do 
with  this.  It  would  have  been  the  same,  anyhow. 
I'm  not  her  kind." 

Roger  Oakley  turned  this  over  slowly  in  his  mind. 
It  was  most  astonishing.  He  couldn't  grasp  it. 

"  Do  you  mean  she  thinks  she  is  better  than  you 
are?"  he  asked,  curiously. 

126 


The  Manager  of  the  B.   &  A. 

"Something  of  that  sort,  I  suppose/'  dryly.  "I 
want  you  to  come  back  into  the  shops,  father." 

"  I  can't  do  it,  Dannie.  I'm  sorry  if  you  wish  it, 
but  it's  impossible.  I  want  to  keep  out  of  sight. 
Back  East,  when  they  pardoned  me,  every  one 
knew,  and  I  didn't  seem  to  mind,  but  here  it's  not 
the  same.  I  can't  face  it.  It  may  be  cowardly,  but 
I  can't." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

OAKLEY  had  told  his  father  he  was  going  to  call 
at  the  Emorys'.  He  wanted  to  see  Constance 
once  more.  Then  it  didn't  much  matter  what  hap- 
pened. 

As  he  passed  up  the  street  he  was  conscious  of  an 
impudent  curiosity  in  the  covert  glances  the  idlers 
on  the  corners  shot  at  him.  With  hardly  an  ex- 
ception they  turned  to  gaze  after  him  as  he  strode 
by.  He  realized  that  an  unsavory  distinction  had 
been  thrust  upon  him.  He  had  become  a  marked 
man.  He  set  his  lips  in  a  grim  smile.  This  was 
what  he  would  have  to  meet  until  the  silly  wonder 
of  it  wore  off,  or  a  fresh  sensation  took  its  place,  and 
there  would  be  the  men  at  the  shops;  their  inter- 
course had  hitherto  been  rather  pleasant  and  per- 
sonal, as  he  had  recognized  certain  responsibilities 
in  the  relation  which  had  made  him  desire  to  be  more 
than  a  mere  task-master.  The  thought  of  his  theo- 
ries caused  him  to  smile  again.  His  humanitarian- 
ism  had  received  a  jolt  from  which  it  would  not  re- 
cover in  many  a  long  day. 

The  hands  already  hated  him  as  a  tyrant,  and 
probably  argued  that  his  authority  was  impaired 
by  the  events  of  the  morning,  though  how  they  ar- 

128 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

rived  at  any  such  conclusion  was  beyond  him,  but 
he  had  felt  something  of  the  kind  in  Branyon's 
manner.  When  the  opportunity  came  it  would  be  a 
satisfaction  to  undeceive  them,  and  he  was  not  above 
wishing  this  opportunity  might  come  soon,  for  his 
mood  was  bitter  and  revengeful,  when  he  recalled 
their  ignorant  and  needlessly  brutal  insolence. 

Early  as  he  was,  he  found,  as  he  had  anticipated 
when  he  started  out,  that  Ryder  was  ahead  of  him. 
The  editor  was  lounging  on  the  Emorys'  porch  with 
the  family.  He  had  dined  with  them. 

As  Dan  approached  he  caught  the  sound  of  Con- 
stance's voice.  There  was  no  other  voice  in  Antioch 
which  sounded  the  same,  or  possessed  the  same 
quality  of  refinement  and  culture.  His  heart  beat 
with  quickened  pulsations  and  his  pace  slackened. 
He  paused  for  an  instant  in  the  shadow  of  the 
lilac-bushes  that  shut  off  the  well-kept  lawn  from 
the  street.  Then  he  forced  himself  to  go  on.  There 
was  no  gain  in  deferring  his  sentence;  better  have 
it  over  with.  Yet  when  he  reached  the  gate  he  would 
gladly  have  passed  it  without  entering  had  it  not 
been  that  he  never  abandoned  any  project  simply 
because  it  was  disagreeable.  He  had  done  too 
many  disagreeable  things  not  to  have  outlived  this 
species  of  cowardice. 

The  instant  he  saw  him,  the  doctor  rose  from  his 
seat  on  the  steps  and  came  quickly  down  the  walk. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  cordiality  he  gave  his 
greeting,  for  he  intended  there  should  be  none.  Mrs. 
Emory,  too,  took  pains  that  he  should  feel  the  friend- 
I  129 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

liness  of  her  sentiment  towards  him.  Constance, 
however,  appeared  embarrassed  and  ill  at  ease,  and 
Dan's  face  grew  very  white.  He  felt  that  he  had  no 
real  appreciation  of  the  changed  conditions  since  his 
father's  story  had  become  public  property.  He  saw 
it  made  a  difference  in  the  way  his  friends  viewed 
him.  He  had  become  hardened,  and  it  had  been  im- 
possible for  him  to  foresee  just  how  it  would  affect 
others,  but  to  these  people  it  was  plainly  a  shock. 
The  very  kindliness  he  had  experienced  at  the  hands 
of  the  doctor  and  Mrs.  Emory  only  served  to  show 
how  great  the  shock  was.  In  their  gracious,  gen- 
erous fashion  they  had  sought  to  make  it  easy  for 
him. 

Oakley  and  the  editor  did  not  speak.  Civility 
seemed  the  rankest  hypocrisy  under  the  circum- 
stances. A  barely  perceptible  inclination  of  the 
head  sufficed,  and  then  Ryder  turned  abruptly  to 
Miss  Emory  and  resumed  his  conversation  with 
her. 

Dan  seated  himself  beside  the  doctor  on  the  steps. 
He  was  completely  crushed.  He  hadn't  the  wit  to 
leave,  and  he  knew  that  he  was  a  fool  for  staying. 
What  was  the  good  in  carrying  on  the  up-hill  fight 
any  longer?  Courage  is  a  fine  quality,  no  doubt, 
but  it  is  also  well  for  a  man  to  have  sense  enough  to 
know  when  he  is  fairly  beaten,  and  he  was  fairly 
beaten. 

He  took  stock  of  the  situation.  Quite  indepen- 
dent of  his  hatred  of  the  fellow,  he  resented  Ryder's 
presence  there  beside  Constance.  But  what  was  the 

130 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

use  of  struggling?  The  sooner  he  banished  all 
thought  of  her  the  better  it  would  be  for  him.  His 
chances  had  never  been  worth  considering. 

He  stole  a  glance  at  the  pair,  who  had  drawn  a 
little  to  one  side,  and  were  talking  in  low  tones  and 
with  the  intimacy  of  long  acquaintance.  He  owned 
they  were  wonderfully  well  suited  to  each  other. 
Ryder  was  no  mean  rival,  had  it  come  to  that.  The 
world  had  given  him  its  rub.  He  knew  perfectly  the 
life  with  which  Miss  Emory  was  familiar,  his  people 
had  been  the  right  sort.  He  was  well-born  and  well- 
bred,  and  he  showed  it. 

It  dawned  upon  the  unwilling  Oakley  slowly  and 
by  degrees  that  to  Constance  Emory  he  must  be 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  the  son  of  a  murderer. 
He  had  never  quite  looked  at  it  in  that  light  before. 
He  had  been  occupied  with  the  effect  rather  than  the 
cause,  but  he  was  sure  that  if  Ryder  had  told  her  his 
father's  history  he  had  made  the  most  of  his  oppor- 
tunity. He  wondered  how  people  felt  about  a  thing 
of  this  kind.  He  knew  now  what  his  portion  would 
be.  Disgrace  is  always  vicarious  in  its  consequences. 
The  innocent  generally  suffer  indiscriminately  along 
with  the  guilty. 

The  doctor  talked  a  steady  stream  at  Oakley,  but 
he  managed  to  say  little  that  made  any  demand  on 
Dan's  attention.  He  was  sorry  for  the  young  man. 
He  had  liked  him  from  the  start,  and  he  believed  but 
a  small  part  of  what  he  had  heard.  It  is  true  he  had 
had  the  particulars  from  Ryder,  but  Ryder  said  what 
he  had  to  say  with  his  usual  lazy  indifference,  as  if 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

his  interest  was  the  slightest,  and  had  vouched  for 
no  part  of  it. 

He  would  hardly  have  dared  admit  that  he  him- 
self was  the  head  and  front  of  the  offending.  Dr. 
Emory  would  not  have  understood  how  it  could  have 
been  any  business  of  his.  It  would  have  finished 
him  with  the  latter.  As  it  was  he  had  been  quick  to 
resent  his  glib,  sneering  tone. 

But  Dan's  manner  convinced  the  doctor  that  there 
were  some  grounds  for  the  charges  made  by  the  hands 
when  they  demanded  Roger  Oakley's  dismissal,  or 
else  he  was  terribly  hurt  by  the  occurrence.  While 
Dr.  Emory  was  reaching  this  conclusion  Dan  was 
cursing  himself  for  his  stupidity.  It  would  have 
been  much  wiser  for  him  to  have  remained  away 
until  Antioch  quieted  down.  Perhaps  it  would  have 
been  fairer,  too,  to  his  friends,  but  since  he  had  blun- 
dered he  would  try  and  see  Miss  Emory  again ;  she 
should  know  the  truth.  It  was  characteristic  of  him 
that  he  should  wish  the  matter  put  straight,  even 
when  there  was  no  especial  advantage  to  be  gained. 

Soon  afterwards  he  took  his  leave.  The  doctor 
followed  him  down  to  the  gate.  There  was  a  certain 
constraint  in  the  manner  of  the  two  men,  now  that 
they  were  alone  together.  As  they  paused  by  the 
gate,  Dr.  Emory  broke  silence  with : 

"  For  God's  sake,  Oakley,  what  is  this  I  hear  about 
your  father?  I'd  like  your  assurance  that  it  is  all  a 
pack  of  lies." 

A  lump  came  into  Dan's  throat,  and  he  answered, 
huskily : 

132 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"  I  am  sure  it  is  not  at  all  as  you  have  heard ;  I  am 
sure  the  facts  are  quite  different  from  the  account  you 
have  had — " 

"But—" 

"  No,  I  can't  deny  it  outright,  much  as  I'd  like  to." 

"  You  don't  mean —  Pardon  me,  for,  of  course,  I 
have  no  right  to  ask." 

Dan  turned  away  his  face.  "I  don't  know  any 
one  who  has  a  better  right  to  ask,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  have  asked  if  I'd  thought  there 
was  a  word  of  truth  in  the  story.  I  had  hoped  I 
could  deny  it  for  you.  That  was  all." 

"I  guess  I  didn't  appreciate  how  you  would  view 
it.  I  have  lived  in  the  shadow  of  it  so  long — " 

The  doctor  looked  aghast  at  the  admission.  He 
had  not  understood  before  that  Dan  was  acknowl- 
edging the  murder.  Even  yet  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  believe  it.  Dan  moved  off  a  step,  as  if 
to  go. 

"Do  you  mean  it  is  true,  Oakley?"  he  asked,  de- 
taining him. 

"Substantially,  yes.  Good -night/'  he  added, 
hopelessly. 

"Wait,"  hastily.  "I  don't  want  you  to  go  just 
yet."  He  put  out  his  hand  frankly.  "It's  nothing 
you  have  done,  anyhow,"  he  said,  as  an  after- 
thought. 

"  No,  but  I  begin  to  think  it  might  just  as  well  have 
been." 

Dr.  Emory  regarded  him  earnestly.  "My  boy, 
I'm  awfully  sorry  for  you,  and  I'm  afraid  you  have 

133 


The  Manager  of  the  B.   &  A. 

gotten  in  for  more  than  you  can  manage.     It  looks 
as  though  your  troubles  were  all  coming  in  a  bunch." 

Dan  smiled. 

"My  antecedents  won't  affect  the  situation  down 
at  the  shops,  if  that  is  what  you  mean.  The  men 
may  not  like  me  any  the  better,  or  respect  me  any 
the  more  for  knowing  of  them,  but  they  will  discover 
that  that  will  make  no  difference  where  our  relations 
are  concerned." 

"To  be  sure.  I  only  meant  that  public  opinion 
will  be  pretty  strong  against  you.  It  somehow  has 
an  influence,"  ruefully. 

"I  suppose  it  has/'  rather  sadly. 

"Do  you  have  to  stay  and  face  it?  It  might  be 
easier,  you  know —  I  don't  mean  exactly  to  run 
away — " 

"  I  am  pledged  to  put  the  shops  and  road  on  a  pay- 
ing basis  for  General  Cornish.  He'd  about  made  up 
his  mind  to  sell  to  the  M.  &  W.  If  he  does,  it  will 
mean  the  closing  of  the  shops,  and  they  will  never  be 
opened  up  again.  That  will  wipe  Antioch  off  the 
map.  Not  so  very  long  ago  I  had  a  good  deal  of 
sympathy  for  the  people  who  would  be  ruined,  and 
I  can't  change  simply  because  they  have,  can  11" 
with  a  look  on  his  face  which  belonged  to  his  father. 

The  doctor  stroked  his  beard  meditatively  and 
considered  the  question. 

"  I  suppose  there  is  such  a  thing  as  duty,  but  don't 
you  think,  under  the  circumstances,  your  respon- 
sibility is  really  very  light?" 

Dan  laughed  softly. 

134 


The  Manager  of  the  B.   &  A. 

"  I  didn't  imagine  you  would  be  the  first  to  advise 
me  to  shirk  it." 

"  I  wouldn't  ordinarily,  but  you  don't  know  Anti- 
och.  They  can  make  it  very  unpleasant  for  you. 
The  town  is  in  a  fever  of  excitement  over  what  has 
happened  to-day.  It  seems  the  men  are  not  through 
with  you  yet." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  My  father  should  have  gone  back. 
It  looks  as  if  I'd  yielded,  but  I  couldn't  ask  him  to 
when  I  saw  how  he  felt  about  it." 

"  You  see  the  town  lives  off  the  shops  and  road.  It 
is  a  personal  matter  to  every  man,  woman,  and  child 
in  the  place." 

"That's  what  makes  me  so  mad  at  the  stupid 
fools!"  said  Oakley,  with  some  bitterness.  "They 
haven't  the  brains  to  see  that  they  have  a  lot  more  at 
stake  than  any  one  else.  If  they  could  gain  any- 
thing from  a  fight  I'd  have  plenty  of  patience  with 
them,  but  they  are  sure  losers.  Even  if  they  strike, 
and  the  shops  are  closed  for  the  next  six  months, 
it  won't  cost  Cornish  a  dollar ;  indeed,  it  will  be  money 
in  his  pocket." 

"  I  don't  think  they'll  strike,"  said  the  doctor.  "  I 
didn't  mean  that  exactly,  but  they'll  try  to  keep  you 
on  a  strain." 

"They  have  done  about  all  they  can  in  that  di- 
rection. The  worst  has  happened.  I  won't  say  it 
didn't  bruise  me  up  a  bit.  Why,  I  am  actually  sore 
in  every  bone  and  muscle.  I  was  never  so  battered, 
but  I'm  beginning  to  get  back,  and  I'm  going  to 
live  the  whole  tiling  down  right  here.  I  can't  have 

135 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

skeletons  that  are  liable  to  be  unearthed  at  any  mo- 
ment." 

He  took  a  letter  from  his  pocket,  opened  it  and 
handed  it  to  the  doctor. 

"  I  guess  you  can  see  to  read  this  if  you  will  step 
nearer  the  street-lamp." 

The  letter  was  an  offer  from  one  of  the  big  Eastern 
lines.  While  the  doctor  knew  very  little  of  railroads, 
he  understood  that  the  offer  was  a  fine  one,  and  was 
impressed  accordingly. 

"I'd  take  it/'  he  said.  "I  wouldn't  fritter  away 
my  time  here.  Precious  little  thanks  you'll  ever 
get." 

"I  can't  honorably  break  with  General  Cornish. 
In  fact,  I  have  already  declined,  but  I  wanted  you  to 
see  the  letter." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  your  sake  that  you  did.  You  are 
sure  to  have  more  trouble." 

"So  much  the  more  reason  why  I  should  stay." 

"  I  am  quite  frank  with  you,  Oakley.  Some  strong 
influence  is  at  work.  No,  it  hasn't  to  do  with  your 
father.  You  can't  well  be  held  accountable  for  his 
acts." 

Ryder's  laughter  reached  them  as  he  spoke.  Oak- 
ley could  see  him  faintly  outlined  in  the  moonlight, 
where  he  sat  between  Constance  Emory  and  her 
mother.  The  influence  was  there.  It  was  probably 
at  work  at  that  very  moment. 

"  I  wouldn't  be  made  a  martyr  through  any  chival- 
rous sense  of  duty/'  continued  the  doctor.  "I'd 
look  out  for  myself." 

136 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

Dan  laughed  again. 

"  You  are  preaching  cowardice  at  a  great  rate." 

"Well,  what's  the  use  of  sacrificing  one's  self? 
You  possess  a  most  horrible  sense  of  rectitude." 

"  I  would  like  to  ask  a  favor  of  you/'  hesitating. 

"  I  was  going  to  say  if  there  was  anything  I  could 
do—" 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  with  increasing  hesitancy, 
"will  you  say  to  Miss  Emory  for  me  that  I'd  like  to 
see  her  to-morrow  afternoon?  I'll  call  about  three — 
that  is—" 

"Yes,  I'll  tell  her  for  you." 

"Thank  you,"  gratefully.  "Thank  you  very 
much.  You  think  she  will  be  at  home?"  awkward- 
ly, for  he  was  afraid  the  doctor  had  misunderstood. 

"  I  fancy  so.     I  can  see  now,  if  you  wish." 

"  No,  don't.  I'll  call  on  the  chance  of  finding  her 
in." 

"Just  as  you  prefer." 

Oakley  extended  his  hand. 

"I  won't  keep  you  standing  any  longer.  Some- 
how our  talk  has  helped  me.  Good-night." 

"Good-night." 

The  doctor  gazed  abstractedly  after  the  young 
man  as  he  moved  down  the  street,  and  he  continued 
to  gaze  after  him  until  he  had  passed  from  sight  in 
the  shadows  that  lay  beneath  the  whispering  maples. 


CHAPTER  XV 

T^ERHAPS  it  showed  lack  of  proper  feeling,  but 
1  Oakley  managed  to  sleep  off  a  good  deal  of  his 
emotional  stress,  and  when  he  left  his  hotel  the  next 
morning  he  was  quite  himself  again. 

His  attitude  towards  the  world  was  the  decently 
cheerf  ul  one  of  the  man  who  is  earning  a  good  salary, 
and  whose  personal  cares  are  far  from  being  numer- 
ous or  pressing.  He  was  still  capable  of  looking  out 
for  Cornish's  interests,  and  his  own,  too,  if  the  need 
arose. 

He  went  down  to  the  office  alert  and  vigorous.  As 
he  strode  along  he  nodded  and  smiled  at  the  people 
he  met  on  the  street.  If  the  odium  of  his  father's 
crime  was  to  attach  itself  to  him  it  should  be  with- 
out his  help.  Antioch  might  count  him  callous  if  it 
liked,  but  it  must  not  think  him  weak. 

His  first  official  act  was  to  go  for  Kerr,  who  was 
unusually  cantankerous,  and  he  gave  that  frigid 
gentleman  a  scare  which  lasted  him  for  the  better 
part  of  a  week.  For  Kerr,  who  had  convinced  him- 
self overnight  that  Oakley  must  resign,  saw  himself 
having  full  swing  with  the  Huckleberry,  and  was 
disposed  to  treat  his  superior  with  airj~  indifference. 
He  had  objected  to  hunting  up  an  old  order-book  Dan 

138 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

wished  to  see,  on  the  score  that  he  was  too  busy, 
whereat,  as  Holt  expressed  it,  the  latter  "  jumped  on 
him  with  both  feet."  His  second  official  act  was  to 
serve  formal  notice  on  Branyon  that  he  was  dismissed 
from  the  shops,  the  master -mechanic's  dismissal 
not  having  been  accepted  as  final,  for  Branyon  had 
turned  up  that  morning  with  a  black  eye  as  if  to  go 
to  work.  He  was  even  harsh  with  Miss  Walton,  and 
took  exception  to  her  spelling  of  a  typewritten  letter, 
which  he  was  sending  off  to  Cornish  in  London. 

He  also  inspected  every  department  in  the  shops, 
and  was  glad  of  an  excuse  he  discovered  to  reprimand 
Joe  Stokes,  who  was  stock-keeper  in  the  carpenter's 
room,  for  the  slovenly  manner  in  which  the  stock 
was  handled.  Then  he  returned  to  the  office,  and  as 
a  matter  of  discipline  kept  Kerr  busy  all  the  rest  of 
the  morning  hauling  dusty  order-books  from  a  dark 
closet.  He  felt  that  if  excitement  was  what  was 
wanted  he  was  the  one  to  furnish  it.  He  had  been 
too  easy. 

He  even  read  Clarence,  whom  he  had  long  since 
given  up  as  hopeless,  a  moving  lecture  on  the  sin  of 
idleness,  and  that  astonished  youth,  who  had  fancied 
himself  proof  against  criticism,  actually  searched 
for  things  to  do,  so  impressed  and  startled  was  he  by 
the  manager's  earnestness,  and  so  fearful  was  he  lest 
he  should  lose  his  place.  If  that  happened,  he  knew 
his  father  would  send  him  to  school,  and  he  almost 
preferred  work,  so  he  flew  around,  was  under  every- 
body's feet  and  in  everybody's  way,  and  when  Oak- 
ley left  the  office  at  half-past  two,  Holt  forcibly  eject- 

139 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

ed  him,  after  telling  him  he  was  a  first-class  nuisance, 
and  that  if  he  stuck  his  nose  inside  the  door  again 
he'd  skin  him. 

Feeling  deeply  his  unpopularity,  Clarence  with- 
drew to  the  yards,  where  he  sought  out  Dutch  Pete 
With  tears  in  his  eyes  he  begged  the  yard  boss  to  find 
some  task  for  him,  it  made  no  difference  what,  just  so 
it  was  work ;  but  Dutch  Pete  didn't  want  to  be  both- 
ered, and  sent  him  away  with  what  Clarence  felt  to 
be  a  superfluity  of  bad  words. 

Naturally  the  office  force  gave  a  deep  sigh  of  satis- 
faction when  Oakley  closed  his  desk  and  announced 
that  he  was  going  up-town  and  would  not  return. 
Miss  Walton  confided  to  Kerr  that  she  just  hoped  he 
would  never  come  back. 

It  was  a  little  before  three  o'clock  when  Dan  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  Emorys'.  The  maid  who  an- 
swered his  ring  ushered  him  into  the  parlor  with 
marked  trepidation.  She  was  a  timid  soul.  Then  she 
swished  from  the  room,  but  returned  almost  imme- 
diately to  say  that  Miss  Emory  would  be  down  in  a 
moment. 

"I  wonder  what's  troubling  her/'  muttered  Oak- 
ley, with  some  exasperation.  "  You'd  think  she  ex- 
pected me  to  take  her  head  off."  He  guessed  that, 
like  her  betters,  she  was  enjoying  to  the  limit  the 
sensation  of  which  he  was  the  innocent  victim. 

When  Constance  entered  the  room,  he  advanced  a 
little  uncertainly.  She  extended  her  hand  quite 
cordially,  however.  There  was  no  trace  of  embar- 
rassment or  constraint  in  her  manner. 

140 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

As  he  took  her  hand,  Dan  said,  simply,  going 
straight  to  the  purpose  of  his  call : 

"  I  have  thought  a  good  deal  over  what  I  want  to 
tell  you,  Miss  Emory."  Miss  Emory  instantly  took 
the  alarm,  and  was  on  the  defensive.  She  enveloped 
herself  in  that  species  of  inscrutable  feminine  re- 
serve men  find  so  difficult  to  penetrate.  She  could 
not  imagine  what  he  had  to  tell  her  that  was  so  press- 
ing. He  was  certainly  very  curious  and  unconven- 
tional. There  was  one  thing  she  feared  he  might 
want  to  tell  her  which  she  was  firmly  determined  not 
to  hear. 

Oakley  drew  forward  a  chair. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  he  asked,  gravely. 

"  Thank  you,  yes."  It  was  all  so  formal  they  both 
smiled. 

Dan  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire-place,  now 
filled  with  ferns,  and  rested  an  elbow  on  the  man- 
tel. There  was  an  awkward  pause.  At  last  he  said, 
slowly : 

"It  seems  I've  been  the  subject  of  a  lot  of  talk 
during  the  last  two  days,  and  I  have  been  saddled 
with  a  matter  for  which  I  am  in  no  way  responsible, 
though  it  appears  to  reflect  on  me  quite  as  much  as  if 
I  were." 

"  Really,  Mr.  Oakley  " — began  Constance,  scent- 
ing danger  ahead.  But  her  visitor  was  in  no  mood 
to  temporize. 

"One  moment,  please,"  he  said,  hastily.  "You 
have  heard  the  story  from  Mr.  Ryder." 

"I  have  heard  it  from  others  as  well." 
141 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"  It  has  influenced  you — " 

"No,  I  won't  say  that/'  defiantly.  She  was  not 
accustomed  to  being  catechised. 

"At  least  it  has  caused  you  to  seriously  doubt 
the  wisdom  of  an  acquaintance,"  blurted  Oakley. 

"  You  are  very  unfair/'  rising  with  latent  anger. 

"You  will  greatly  oblige  me  by  sitting  down 
again." 

And  Constance,  astonished  beyond  measure  at  his 
tone  of  command,  sank  back  into  her  chair  with 
a  little  smothered  gasp  of  surprise.  No  one  had  ever 
ventured  to  speak  to  her  like  that  before.  It  was  a 
new  experience. 

"We've  got  to  finish  this,  you  know,"  explained 
Dan,  with  one  of  his  frankest  smiles,  and  there  was  a 
genial  simplicity  about  his  smile  which  was  very 
attractive.  Constance,  however,  was  not  to  be  pro- 
pitiated, but  she  kept  her  seat.  She  was  apprehen- 
sive lest  Oakley  would  do  something  more  startling 
and  novel  if  she  attempted  to  cut  short  the  interview. 

She  stole  a  glance  at  him  from  under  her  long 
lashes.  He  was  studying  the  carpet,  apparently 
quite  lost  to  the  enormity  of  his  conduct.  "You 
have  heard  their  side  of  the  story,  Miss  Emory.  I 
want  you  to  hear  mine.  It's  only  fair,  isn't  it?  You 
have  heard  that  my  father  is  an  ex-convict?" 

"Yes,"  with  a  tinge  of  regret. 

"  That  he  is  a  murderer?"  plunging  ahead  merci- 
lessly. 

"Yes." 

"  And  this  is  influencing  you?'5 
142 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  helplessly.  "It  would  natural- 
ly. It  was  a  great  shock  to  us  all. " 

"Yes,"  agreed  Dan,  "I  can  understand,  I  think, 
just  how  you  must  look  at  it." 

"  We  are  very,  very  sorry  for  you,  Mr.  Oakley.  I 
want  to  explain  my  manner  last  night.  The  whole 
situation  was  so  excessively  awkward.  I  am  sure 
you  must  have  felt  it." 

"I  did,"  shortly. 

"  Oh,  dear,  I  hope  you  didn't  think  me  unkind ! " 

"No."  Then  he  added,  a  trifle  wearily,  "It's 
taken  me  all  this  time  to  realize  my  position.  I  sup- 
pose I  owe  you  some  sort  of  an  apology.  You  must 
have  thought  me  fearfully  thick-skinned."  He 
hoped  she  would  say  no,  but  he  was  disappointed. 
Her  conscience  had  been  troubling  her,  and  she  was 
perfectly  willing  to  share  her  remorse  with  him, 
since  he  was  so  ready  to  assume  a  part  of  it.  She 
was  as  conventional  as  extreme  respectability  could 
make  her,  but  she  had  never  liked  Oakley  half  so 
well.  She  admired  his  courage.  He  didn't  whine. 
His  very  stupidity  was  in  its  way  admirable,  but  it 
was  certainly  too  bad  he  could  not  see  just  how  im- 
possible he  was  under  the  circumstances. 

Dan  raised  his  eyes  to  hers.  "Miss  Emory,  the 
only  time  I  remember  to  have  seen  my  father  until  he 
came  here  a  few  weeks  ago  was  through  the  grating 
of  his  cell  door.  My  mother  took  me  there  as  a  little 
boy.  When  she  died  I  came  West,  where  no  one 
knew  me.  I  had  already  learned  that,  because  of 
him,  I  was  somehow  judged  and  condemned,  too.  It 

143 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

has  always  been  hanging  over  me.  I  have  always 
feared  exposure.  I  suppose  I  can  hush  it  up  after  a 
while,  but  there  will  always  be  some  one  to  tell  it  to 
whoever  will  listen.  It  is  no  longer  a  secret." 

"  Was  it  fair  to  your  friends,  Mr.  Oakley,  that  it 
was  a  secret?" 

"I  can't  see  what  business  it  was  of  theirs.  It's 
nothing  I  have  done,  and,  anyhow,  I  have  never  had 
any  friends  until  now  I  cared  especially  about." 

"  Oh!"  and  Miss  Emory  lowered  her  eyes.  So  long 
as  he  was  merely  determined  and  stupid  he  was  safe, 
but  should  he  become  sentimental  it  might  be  em- 
barrassing for  them  both. 

"You  have  seen  my  father.  Do  you  think  from 
what  you  can  judge  from  appearances  that  he  would 
kill  a  man  in  cold  blood?  It  was  only  after  years  of 
insult  that  it  came  to  that,  and  then  the  other  man  was 
the  aggressor.  What  my  father  did  he  did  in  self- 
defence,  but  I  am  pretty  sure  you  were  not  told  this." 

He  was  swayed  by  a  sense  of  duty  towards  his  fa- 
ther, and  a  desire  to  vindicate  him — he  was  so  passive 
and  enduring.  The  intimacy  of  their  relation  had 
begotten  warmth  and  sympathy.  They  had  been 
drawn  nearer  and  nearer  each  other.  The  clannish- 
ness  of  his  blood  and  race  asserted  itself.  It  was  a 
point  of  honor  with  him  to  stand  up  for  his  friends, 
and  to  stand  up  for  his  father  most  of  all.  Could  he, 
he  would  have  ground  his  heel  into  Ryder's  face  for 
his  part  in  circulating  the  garbled  version  of  the  old 
convict's  history.  Some  one  should  suffer  as  he  had 
been  made  to  suffer. 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  Ryder  did  not  know  what  you  have 
told  me,"  Constance  said,  hastily.  She  could  not 
have  told  why,  but  she  had  the  uneasy  feeling  that 
Griff  required  a  champion,  that  he  was  responsible. 
"  Then  you  did  hear  it  from  Mr.  Ryder?" 
She  did  not  answer,  and  Oakley,  taking  her  silence 
for  assent,  continued :  "  I  don't  suppose  it  was  told  you 
either  that  he  was  pardoned  because  of  an  act  of  con- 
spicuous heroism,  that,  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life,  he 
saved  the  lives  of  several  nurses  and  patients  in  the 
hospital  ward  of  the  prison  where  he  was  confined." 
He  looked  inquiringly  at  Constance,  but  she  was  still 
silent.  "  Miss  Emory,  my  father  came  to  me  to  all 
intents  an  absolute  stranger.  Why,  I  even  feared 
him,  for  I  didn't  know  the  kind  of  man  he  was,  but  I 
have  come  to  have  a  great  affection  and  regard  for 
him.  I  respect  him,  too,  most  thoroughly.  There 
is  not  an  hour  of  the  day  when  the  remembrance  of 
his  crime  is  not  with  him.  Don't  you  think  it  cow- 
ardly that  it  should  have  been  ventilated  simply  to 
hurt  me,  when  it  must  inevitably  hurt  him  so  much 
more?  He  has  quit  work  in  the  shops,  and  he  is 
determined  to  leave  Antioch.  I  may  find  him  gone 
when  I  return  to  the  hotel." 

"And  you  blame  Mr.  Ryder  for  this?" 
"  I  do.     It's  part  of  the  debt  we'll  settle  some  day." 
"  Then  you  are  unjust.     It  was  Mr.  Kenyon.     His 
cousin  is  warden  of  the  prison.     He  saw  your  father 
there  and  remembered  him. " 

"And  told  Mr.  Ryder/'  with  a  contemptuous  twist 
of  the  lips. 

K  145 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"There  were  others  present  at  the  time.  They 
were  not  alone/' 

"  But  Mr.  Ryder  furnished  the  men  with  the  facts." 

"How  do  you  know?"  And  once  more  her  tone 
was  one  of  defiance  and  defence. 

"  I  have  been  told  so,  and  I  have  every  reason  to 
believe  I  was  correctly  informed.  Why,  don't  you 
admit  that  it  was  a  cowardly  piece  of  business  to 
strike  at  me  over  my  father's  shoulder?"  demanded 
Oakley,  with  palpable  exasperation.  The  narrow- 
ness of  her  nature  and  her  evasions  galled  him.  Why 
didn't  she  show  a  little  generous  feeling.  He  ex- 
pected she  would  be  angry  at  his  words  and  manner. 
On  the  contrary,  she  replied : 

"I  am  not  defending  Mr.  Ryder,  as  you  seem  to 
think,  but  I  do  not  believe  in  condemning  any  one  as 
you  would  condemn  him — unheard." 

She  was  unduly  conscious,  perhaps,  that  sound 
morality  was  on  her  side  in  this. 

"Let  us  leave  him  out  of  it.  After  all,  it  is  no 
odds  who  told.  The  harm  is  done." 

"No,  I  shall  ask  Griff." 

Dan  smiled,  doubtfully. 

"That  will  settle  it,  if  you  believe  what  he  tells 
you." 

"His  denial  will  be  quite  sufficient  for  me,  Mr. 
Oakley,"  with  chilly  politeness. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  during  which  Dan  looked 
at  the  carpet,  and  Miss  Emory  at  nothing  in  particu- 
lar. He  realized  how  completely  he  had  separated 
himself  from  the  rest  of  the  world  in  her  eyes.  The 

146 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

hopelessness  of  his  love  goaded  him  on.  He  turned 
to  her  with  sudden  gentleness  and  said,  penitently : 

"Won't  you  forgive  me?"" 

"I  have  nothing  to  forgive,  Mr.  Oakley/'  with 
lofty  self-denial,  and  again  Dan  smiled  doubtfully. 
Her  sajdng  so  did  not  mean  all  it  should  have  meant 
to  him. 

He  swept  his  hand  across  his  face  with  a  troubled 
gesture.  "I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  he  observed, 
ruefully.  "  The  turf  seems  knocked  from  under  my 
feet." 

"It  must  have  been  a  dreadful  ordeal  to  pass 
through  alone,"  she  said.  "We  are  so  distressed 
for  your  sake."  And  she  seemed  so  keenly  sym- 
pathetic that  Dan's  heart  gave  a  great  bound  in 
his  breast.  He  put  aside  his  mounting  bitterness 
against  her. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  came  to  see  you  to-day.  I 
just  wanted  to,  and  so  I  came.  I  don't  want  to  force 
a  friendship." 

Miss  Emory  murmured  that  no  excuse  was  neces- 
sary. 

"  I  am  not  too  sure  of  that.  I  must  appear  bent  on 
exhibiting  myself  and  my  woes,  but  I  can't  go  into 
retirement,  and  I  can't  let  people  see  I'm  hurt." 

His  face  took  on  a  strong  resolve.  He  couldn't 
go  without  telling  her  he  loved  her.  His  courage 
was  suddenly  riotous. 

"Once,  not  long  ago,  I  dared  to  believe  I  might 
level  the  differences  between  us.  I  recognized  what 
they  were,  but  now  it  is  hopeless.  There  are  some 

147 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

things  a  man  can't  overcome,  no  matter  how  hard  he 
tries,  and  I  suppose  being  the  son  of  a  murderer  is 
one  of  these. "  He  paused,  and,  raising  his  eyes  from 
the  carpet,  glanced  at  her,  but  her  face  was  averted, 
lie  went  on,  desperately :  "  It's  quite  hopeless,  but  I 
have  dared  to  hope,  and  I  wanted  you  to  know.  I 
hate  to  leave  things  unfinished." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  then  Miss  Emory  said, 
softly : 

"I  am  so  sorry." 

"  Which  means  you've  never  cared  for  me,"  dryly. 

But  she  did  not  answer  him.  She  was  wondering 
how  she  would  have  felt  had  the  confession  come 
forty-eight  hours  earlier. 

"I  suppose  I've  been  quite  weak  and  foolish," 
said  Dan. 

She  looked  into  his  face  with  a  slow  smile. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that?  Is  it  weak  and  foolish  to 
care  for  some  one?" 

"Wasn't  it?"  with  suddenly  kindled  hope,  for  he 
found  it  hard  to  give  her  up. 

Miss  Emory  drew  herself  together  with  a  sigh. 

"I  never  thought  of  this,"  she  said,  which  was 
hardly  true ;  she  had  thought  of  it  many  times. 

"No,"  admitted  Dan,  innocently  enough,  for  her 
lightest  word  had  become  gospel  to  him,  such  was 
his  love  and  reverence.  "  You  couldn't  know. "  Poor 
Oakley,  his  telling  of  it  was  the  smallest  part  of  the 
knowledge.  "  I  think  I  see  now,  perfectly,  how  great 
a  difference  this  affair  of  my  father's  must  make.  It 
sort  of  cuts  me  off  from  everything." 

148 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"It  is  very  tragic.  I  wish  you  hadn't  told  me 
just  now."  Her  lips  trembled  pathetically,  and  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"I've  wanted  to  tell  you  for  a  long  time." 

"I  didn't  know." 

"Of  course  you  couldn't  know/'  he  repeated;  then 
he  plunged  ahead  recklessly,  for  he  found  there  was 
a  curious  satisfaction  in  telling  her  of  his  love,  hope- 
less as  it  was. 

"It  has  been  most  serious  and  sacred  to  me.  I 
shall  never  forget  you — never.  It  has  helped  me  in  so 
many  ways  just  to  know  you.  It  has  changed  so 
many  of  my  ideals.  I  can't  be  grateful  enough." 

Miss  Emory  approved  his  attitude.  It  was  as  it 
should  be.  She  was  sorry  for  him.  She  admired 
his  dignity  and  repression.  It  made  him  seem  so 
strong  and  purposeful. 

"You  will  find  your  happiness  some  day,  Mr. 
Oakley.  You  will  find  some  one  more  worthy  than 
I."  She  knew  he  would  be  insensible  to  the  triteness 
of  her  remark. 

"No,"  generously,  "that  couldn't  be.  Ill  not 
find  any  one.  I'll  not  look." 

"Oh,  but  you  will." 

Already,  with  the  selfishness  of  her  sex,  and  a 
selfishness  which  was  greater  than  that  of  her  sex, 
she  was  regretting  that  she  had  allowed  him  to  step 
so  easily  into  the  position  of  a  rejected  lover. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  it  is  going  to  ruin 
my  life,"  he  said,  quietly,  "or  anything  of  that 
sort." 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

An  appeal  to  her  pity  seemed  weak  and  contempt- 
ible. 

"  I  have  striven  to  win  what  I  can't  have,  what  is  not 
for  me,  and  I  am  satisfied  to  have  made  the  effort." 

Miss  Emory  bit  her  lip.  He  was  going  to  put  her 
out  of  his  life  entirely.  It  was  ended,  and  he  would 
do  his  best  to  forget  her  with  what  speed  he  might, 
for  he  loved  her,  and  was  too  generous  to  wish  her 
to  suffer.  This  generosity,  needless  to  say,  was  too 
altruistic  for  Constance  to  fully  appreciate  its  beau- 
ties. Indeed,  she  did  not  regard  it  as  generosity  at 
all.  She  resented  it.  She  realized  that  probably 
she  would  not  see  him  again;  at  least  the  meeting 
would  not  be  of  his  making  or  choosing.  There  was 
to  be  no  sentimental  aftermath.  He  was  preparing 
to  go,  like  the  sensible  fellow  he  was,  for  good  and 
all,  and  she  rebelled  against  the  decree.  It  seemed 
brutal  and  harsh.  She  was  angry,  hurt,  and  of- 
fended. Perhaps  her  conscience  was  troubling  her, 
too.  She  knew  she  was  mean  and  petty. 

"  I  don't  think  it  could  have  been  very  serious  to 
you,  Mr.  Oakley,"  she  murmured,  gazing  abstract- 
edly from  the  window. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  think  that.  I  can't  say 
any  more  than  I  have  said.  It  includes  all."  She 
wanted  to  tell  him  he  gave  up  too  easily. 

"At  any  rate,  we  are  friends,"  he  added. 

"Are  you  going?"  she  cried,  with  a  ring  of  real 
longing  and  regret  in  her  voice,  lifted  out  of  herself 
for  the  moment  at  the  thought  of  losing  him. 

Dan  nodded,  and  a  look  of  pain  came  into  his  face. 
ISO 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"  Yes,  I  am  going." 

"  But  you  are  not  going  to  leave  Antioch?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

And  Miss  Emory  felt  a  sense  of  relief.  She  rose 
from  her  chair.  "  Then  I  shall  see  you  again?" 

"Probably,"  smiling.  "We  couldn't  well  avoid 
seeing  each  other  in  a  place  the  size  of  this." 

He  held  out  his  hand  frankly. 

"  And  I  sha'n't  see  you  here  any  more?"  she  asked, 
softly. 

"I  guess  not,"  a  little  roughly.  The  bitterness 
of  his  loss  stung  him.  He  felt  something  was  wrong 
somewhere.  He  wondered,  too,  if  she  had  been 
quite  fair  to  him,  if  her  ability  to  guard  herself  was 
entirely  commendable,  after  all.  He  knew,  in  the 
end,  his  only  memory  of  her  would  be  that  she  was 
beautiful.  He  would  carry  this  memory  and  a 
haunting  sense  of  incompleteness  with  him  wher- 
ever he  went. 

She  placed  her  hand  in  his  and  looked  up  into  his 
face  with  troubled,  serious  eyes. 

"  Good-bye. "    It  was  almost  a  whisper. 

Dan  crossed  the  room  to  the  door  and  flung  it 
open.  For  an  instant  he  wavered  on  the  threshold, 
but  a  moment  later  he  was  striding  down  the  street, 
with  his  hat  jammed  needlessly  low  over  his  ears, 
and  his  hands  thrust  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets. 

At  the  window,  Constance,  with  a  white,  scared 
face,  was  watching  him  from  between  the  parted 
curtains.  She  hoped  he  would  look  back,  but  he 
never  once  turned  his  head. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ON  Thursday  the  Herald  published  its  report  of 
the  trouble  at  the  shops.  Oakley  had  looked 
forward  to  the  paper's  appearance  with  considerable 
eagerness.  He  hoped  to  glean  from  it  some  idea  of 
the  tactics  the  men  would  adopt,  and  in  this  he  was 
not  disappointed.  Ryder  served  up  his  sensation, 
which  was  still  a  sensation,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
it  was  common  property  and  two  days  old  before  it 
was  accorded  the  dignity  of  type  and  ink,  in  his  most 
impressive  style : 

*  The  situation  at  the  car-shops  has  assumed  a  serious  phase, 
and  a  strike  is  imminent.  Matters  came  to  a  focus  day  before 
yesterday,  and  may  now  be  said  to  have  reached  an  acute  stage. 
It  is  expected  that  the  carpenters — of  whom  quite  a  number  are 
employed  on  repair  work — will  be  the  first  to  go  out  unless  certain 
demands  which  they  are  to  make  to-day  are  promptly  acceded 
to  by  General  Cornish's  local  representative. 

"  Both  sides  maintain  the  strictest  secrecy,  but  from  reliable 
sources  the  Herald  gathers  that  the  men  will  insist  upon  Mr. 
Branyon  being  taken  back  by  the  company. 

"  Another  grievance  of  the  men,  and  one  in  which  they  should 
have  the  sympathy  of  the  entire  community,  is  their  objection 
to  working  with  the  manager's  father,  who  came  here  recently 
from  the  East  and  has  since  been  employed  in  the  shops.  It  has 
been  learned  that  he  is  an  ex-convict  who  was  sentenced  for  a 
long  term  of  imprisonment  in  June,  1875,  for  the  murder  of 
Thomas  Sharp,  at  Burton,  Massachusetts. 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"  He  was  only  recently  set  at  liberty,  and  the  men  are  natural- 
ly incensed  and  indignant  at  having  to  work  with  him.  Still 
another  grievance  is  the  new  schedule  of  wages. 

"  A  committee  representing  every  department  in  the  shops 
and  possessing  the  fullest  authority,  met  last  night  at  the  Odd 
Fellows'  Hall  on  South  Main  Street,  but  their  deliberations 
were  secret.  A  well-authenticated  rumor  has  it,  however,  that 
the  most  complete  harmony  prevailed,  and  that  the  employes 
are  pledged  to  drastic  measures  unless  they  get  fair  treatment 
from  the  company." 

Ryder  tacked  a  moral  to  this,  and  the  moral  was 
that  labor  required  a  champion  to  protect  it  from  the 
soulless  greed  and  grinding  tyranny  of  the  great 
corporations  which  had  sprung  into  existence  under 
the  fostering  wing  of  corrupt  legislation.  Of  course 
"the  Picturesque  Statesman  from  Old  Hanover" 
was  the  Hercules  who  was  prepared  to  right  these 
wrongs  of  honest  industry,  and  to  curb  the  power  of 
Cornish,  whose  vampire  lusts  fattened  on  the  sweat 
of  the  toiler,  and  especially  the  toiler  at  Antioch. 

A  copy  of  the  paper  was  evidently  sent  the  "  Pict- 
uresque  Statesman,"  who  had  just  commenced  his 
canvass,  for  in  its  very  next  issue  the  Herald  was 
able  to  print  a  telegram  in  which  he  "heartily 
endorsed  the  sentiments  embodied  in  the  Herald's 
ringing  editorial  on  the  situation  at  Antioch,"  and  de- 
clared himself  a  unit  with  his  fellow-citizens  of  what- 
ever party  in  their  heroic  struggle  for  a  fair  day's 
wage  for  a  fair  day's  work.  He  also  expressed  him- 
self as  honored  by  their  confidence,  as,  indeed,  he 
might  well  have  been. 

Dan  digested  the  Herald's  report  along  with  his 
153 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

breakfast.  Half  an  hour  later,  when  he  reached  the 
office,  he  found  McClintock  waiting  for  him. 

"The  men  want  to  see  you,  Mr.  Oakley.  They 
were  going  to  send  their  committee  in  here,  but  I  told 
'em  you'd  come  out  to  them." 

"  All  right.  It's  just  as  well  you  did. "  And  Oak- 
ley followed  him  from  the  office. 

"Did  you  read  the  Herald's  yap  this  morning?" 
Inquired  the  master-mechanic. 

"Yes,"  said  Dan,  "I  did.  It  was  rather  funny, 
hasn't  it?" 

"  The  town  will  be  owing  Ryder  a  coat  of  tar  and 
feathers  presently.  He'll  make  these  fools  think 
they've  got  a  reason  to  be  sore  on  the  company." 

The  men  were  clustered  about  the  great  open  door 
of  the  works  in  their  shirt-sleeves.  From  behind 
them,  in  the  silence  and  the  shadow,  came  the  pleas- 
ant, droning  sound  of  machinery,  like  the  humming 
of  a  million  bees.  There  wras  something  dogged 
and  reckless  in  the  very  way  they  stood  around,  with 
folded  arms,  or  slouched  nervously  to  and  fro. 

Dan  singled  out  Bentick  and  Joe  Stokes,  and  three 
or  four  others,  as  the  committee,  and  made  straight 
towards  them. 

"  Well,  men,  what  do  you  want?"  he  asked,  briskly. 

"  We  represent  every  department  in  the  shops,  sir," 
said  Bentick,  civilly,  "and  we  consider  Branyon's 
discharge  as  unjust.  We  want  him  taken  back." 

"And  suppose  I  won't  take  him  back,  what  are 
you  going  to  do  about  it — eh?"  asked  Dan,  good- 
naturedly,  and,  not  waiting  for  a  reply,  with  old- 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

time  deftness  he  swung  himself  up  into  an  empty 
flat-car  which  stood  close  at  hand  and  faced  his 
assembled  workmen. 

"  You  know  why  Branyon  was  dismissed.  It  was 
a  business  none  of  you  have  much  reason  to  be  proud 
of,  but  I  am  willing  to  let  him  come  back  on  condition 
he  first  offers  an  apology  to  McClintock  and  to  me. 
Unless  he  does  he  can  never  set  his  foot  inside  these 
doors  again  while  I  remain  here.  I  agree  to  this,  be- 
cause I  don't  wish  to  make  him  a  scapegoat  for  the 
rest  of  you,  and  I  don't  wish  those  dependent  on  him 
to  suffer." 

He  avoided  looking  in  McClintock's  direction.  He 
felt,  rather  than  saw,  that  the  latter  was  shaking 
his  head  in  strong  disapproval  of  his  course.  The 
committee  and  the  men  exchanged  grins.  The  boss 
was  weakening.  They  had  scored  twice.  First 
against  Roger  Oakley,  and  now  for  Branyon. 

"I  guess  Branyon  would  as  lief  be  excused  from 
making  an  apology,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  Milt," 
said  Bentick,  less  civilly  than  before,  and  there  was 
a  ripple  of  smothered  laughter  from  the  crowd. 

Dan  set  his  lips,  and  said,  sternly  but  quietly, 
"That's  for  him  to  decide." 

"Well,  we'll  tell  him  what  you  say,  and  if  he's 
ready  to  eat  humble-pie  there  won't  be  no  kick  corn- 
ing from  us,"  remarked  Bentick,  impartially. 

"Is  this  all?"  asked  Oakley. 

"No,  we  can't  see  the  cut."  And  a  murmur  of 
approval  came  from  the  men. 

Dan  looked  out  over  the  crowd.  Why  couldn't 
155 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

they  see  that  the  final  victory  was  in  his  hands? 
"Be  guided  by  me/'  he  said,  earnestly,  "and  take 
my  word  for  it;  the  cut  is  necessary.  I'll  meet  you 
half-way  in  the  Branyon  matter;  let  it  go  at  that." 

"We  want  our  old  wages/''  insisted  Bentick,  dog- 
gedly. 

"  It  is  out  of  the  question ;  the  shops  are  running 
behind;  they  are  not  earning  any  money,  they 
never  have,  and  it's  as  much  to  your  interests  as 
mine,  or  General  Cornish's,  to  do  your  full  part  in 
making  them  profitable." 

He  pleaded  with  unmistakable  sincerity  in  his 
tones,  and  now  he  looked  at  McClintock,  who  nodded 
his  head.  This  was  the  stiff  talk  he  liked  to  hear, 
and  had  expected  from  Oakley. 

The  committee  turned  to  the  men,  and  the  men 
sullenly  shook  their  heads.  Some  one  whispered, 
"  He'll  knuckle.  He's  got  to.  We'll  make  him." 

Dan  caught  the  sense  of  what  was  said,  if  not  the 
ivords. 

"Wages  can't  go  back  until  the  business  in  the 
shops  warrants  it.  If  you  will  continue  to  work 
under  the  present  arrangement,  good  and  well.  If 
not,  I  see  no  way  to  meet  your  demands.  You  will 
have  to  strike.  That,  however,  is  an  alternative  I 
trust  you  will  carefully  weigh  before  you  commit 
yourselves.  Once  the  shops  are  closed  it  will  not  be 
policy  to  open  them  until  fall,  perhaps  not  until  the 
first  of  the  year.  But  if  you  can  afford  to  lie  idle  all 
summer,  it's  your  own  affair.  That's  exactly  what 
it  means  if  you  strike." 

156 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

He  jumped  down  from  the  car,  and  would  have  left 
them  then  and  there,  but  Bentick  stepped  in  front  of 
him. 

"  Can't  we  talk  it  over,  Mr.  Oakley?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  talk  over,  Bentick.  Settle 
it  among  yourselves."  And  he  marched  off  up  the 
tracks,  with  McClintock  following  in  his  wake  and 
commending  the  stand  he  had  taken. 

The  first  emotion  of  the  men  was  one  of  profound 
and  depressing  surprise  at  the  abruptness  with 
which  Oakley  had  terminated  the  interview,  and  his 
evident  willingness  to  close  the  shops,  a  move  they 
had  not  counted  on.  It  dashed  their  courage. 

"We'll  call  his  bluff,"  cried  Bentick,  and  the  men 
gave  a  faint  cheer.  They  were  not  so  sure  it  was  a 
bluff,  after  all.  It  looked  real  enough. 

There  were  those  who  thought,  with  a  guilty 
pang,  of  wives  and  children  at  home,  and  no  pay- 
day— the  fortnightly  haven  of  rest  towards  which 
they  lived.  And  there  were  the  customarily  reckless 
souls,  who  thirsted  for  excitement  at  any  price,  and 
who  were  willing  to  see  the  trouble  to  a  finish.  These 
ruled,  as  they  usually  do.  Not  a  man  returned  to 
work.  Instead,  they  hung  about  the  yards  and 
canvassed  the  situation.  Finally  the  theory  was  ad- 
vanced that,  if  the  shops  were  closed,  it  would  serve 
to  bring  down  Cornish's  wrath  on  Oakley,  and  prob- 
ably result  in  his  immediate  dismissal.  This  theory 
found  instant  favor,  and  straightway  became  a  con- 
viction with  the  majority. 

At  length  all  agreed  to  strike,  and  the  whistle  in 
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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

the  shops  was  set  shrieking  its  dismal  protest.  The 
men  swarmed  into  the  building,  where  each  got  to- 
gether his  kit  of  tools.  They  were  quite  jolly  now, 
and  laughed  and  jested  a  good  deal.  Presently 
they  were  streaming  off  up-town,  with  their  coats 
over  their  arms,  and  the  strike  was  on. 

An  unusual  stillness  fell  on  the  yards  and  in  the 
shops.  The  belts,  as  they  swept  on  and  on  in  endless 
revolutions,  cut  this  stillness  with  a  sharp,  incisive 
hiss.  The  machinery  seemed  to  hammer  at  it,  as 
if  to  beat  out  some  lasting  echo.  Then,  gradually, 
the  volume  of  sound  lessened.  It  mumbled  to  a  do- 
tage of  decreasing  force,  and  then  everything  stopped 
with  a  sudden  jar.  The  shops  had  shut  down. 

McClintock  came  from  the  office  and  entered  the 
works,  pulling  the  big  doors  to  after  him.  He  want- 
ed to  see  that  all  was  made  snug.  He  cursed  loudly 
as  he  strode  through  the  deserted  building.  It  was 
the  first  time  since  he  had  been  with  the  road  that 
the  shops  had  been  closed,  and  it  affected  him 
strangely. 

The  place  held  a  dreadful,  ghostly  inertness.  The 
belts  and  shafting,  with  its  innumerable  cogs  and 
connections,  reached  out  like  the  heavy-knuckled 
tentacles  of  some  great,  lifeless  monster.  The  sun- 
light stole  through  the  broken,  cobwebbed  windows, 
to  fall  on  heaps  of  rusty  iron  and  heaps  of  dirty  shav- 
ings. 

In  the  engine-room  he  discovered  Smith  Roberts 
and  his  assistant,  Joe  Webber,  banking  the  fires, 
preparatory  to  leaving.  They  were  the  only  men 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

about  the  place.  Roberts  closed  a  furnace-door  with 
a  bang,  threw  down  his  shovel,  and  drew  a  grimy 
arm  across  his  forehead. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  lot  of  lunkheads,  Milt? 
I'll  bet  they'll  be  kicking  themselves  good  and  hard 
before  they  get  to  the  wind-up  of  this/' 

McClintock  looked  with  singular  affection  at  the 
swelling  girths  of  iron  which  held  the  panting  lungs 
of  the  monster  the  men  had  doomed  to  silence,  and 
swore  his  most  elaborate  oath. 

"No,  I  never  did,  Smith.  You'd  think  they  had 
money  to  burn  the  way  they  chucked  their  job." 

"  When  do  you  suppose  I'll  get  a  chance  to  build 
steam  again?" 

"  Oakley  says  we  won't  start  up  before  the  first  of 
September." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  first  weeks  of  the  strike  slipped  by  without 
excitement.  Harvest  time  came  and  went.  A 
rainless  August  browned  the  earth  and  seared  the 
woods  with  its  heat,  but  nothing  happened  to  vary 
the  dull  monotony.  The  shops,  a  sepulchre  of 
sound,  stood  silent  and  empty.  General  Cornish,  in 
the  role  of  the  avenger,  did  not  appear  on  the  scene, 
to  Oakley's  discomfiture  and  to  the  joy  of  the  men. 
A  sullen  sadness  rested  on  the  town.  The  women 
began  to  develop  shrewish  tempers  and  a  trying  con- 
versational habit,  while  their  husbands  squandered 
their  rapidly  dwindling  means  in  the  saloons.  There 
was  large  talk  and  a  variety  of  threats,  but  no  law- 
lessness. 

Simultaneously  with  the  inauguration  of  the 
strike,  Jeffy  reappeared  mysteriously.  He  hinted 
darkly  at  foreign  travel  under  singularly  favorable 
auspices,  and  intimated  that  he  had  been  sojourning 
in  a  community  where  there  was  always  some  one  to 
"  throw  a  few  whiskeys  "  into  him  when  his  "  cop- 
pers got  hot/'  and  where  he  had  "fed  his  face"  three 
times  a  day,  so  bounteous  was  the  charity. 

At  intervals  a  rumor  was  given  currency  that  Oak- 
ley was  on  the  verge  of  starting  up  with  imported 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

labor,  and  the  men,  dividing  the  watches,  met  each 
train;  but  only  familiar  types,  such  as  the  casual 
commercial  traveller  with  his  grips,  the  farmer  from 
up  or  down  the  line,  with  his  inevitable  paper  parcels, 
and  the  stray  wayfarer  were  seen  to  step  from  the 
Huckleberry's  battered  coaches.  Finally  it  dawned 
upon  the  men  that  Dan  was  bent  on  starving  them 
into  submission. 

Ryder  had  displayed  what,  for  him,  was  a  most  un- 
usual activity.  Almost  every  day  he  held  confer- 
ences with  the  leaders  of  the  strike,  and  his  personal 
influence  went  far  towards  keeping  the  men  in  line. 
Indeed,  his  part  in  the  whole  affair  was  much  more 
important  than  was  generally  recognized. 

The  political  campaign  had  started,  and  Kenyon 
was  booked  to  speak  in  Antioch.  It  was  understood 
in  advance  that  he  would  declare  for  the  strikers,  and 
his  coming  caused  a  welcome  flutter  of  excitement. 

The  statesman  arrived  on  No.  7,  and  the  reception 
committee  met  him  at  the  station  in  two  carriages. 
It  included  Cap  Roberts,  the  Hon.  Jeb  Barrows, 
Ryder,  Joe  Stokes,  and  Bentick.  The  two  last  were 
an  inspiration  of  the  editor's,  and  proved  a  popular 
success. 

The  brass-band  hired  for  the  occasion  discoursed 
patriotic  airs,  as  Kenyon,  in  a  long  linen  duster  and 
a  limp,  wilted  collar,  presented  himself  at  the  door  of 
the  smoker.  The  great  man  was  all  blandness  and 
suavity — an  oily  suavity  that  oozed  and  trickled 
from  every  pore. 

The  crowd  on  the  platform  gave  a  faint,  unenthu- 
L  161 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

siastic  cheer  as  it  caught  sight  of  him.  It  had  been 
more  interested  in  staring  at  Bentick  and  Stokes. 
They  looked  so  excessively  uncomfortable. 

Mr.  Kenyon  climbed  down  the  steps  and  shook 
hands  with  Mr.  Ryder.  Then,  bowing  and  smiling 
to  the  right  and  left,  he  crossed  the  platform,  leaning 
on  the  editor's  arm.  At  the  carriages  there  were 
more  greetings.  Stokes  and  Bentick  were  formally 
presented,  and  the  Congressman  mounted  to  a  place 
beside  them,  whereat  the  crowd  cheered  again,  and 
Stokes  and  Bentick  looked,  if  possible,  more  misera- 
ble than  before.  They  had  a  sneaking  idea  that  a 
show  was  being  made  of  them.  Ryder  took  his 
place  in  the  second  carriage,  with  Cap  Roberts  and 
the  Hon.  Jeb  Barrows,  and  the  procession  moved  off 
up-town  to  the  hotel,  preceded  by  the  band  playing  a 
lively  two-step  out  of  tune,  and  followed  by  a  troop  of 
bare-legged  urchins. 

After  supper  the  statesman  was  serenaded  by  the 
band,  and  a  little  later  the  members  of  the  Young 
Men's  Kenyon  Club,  attired  in  cotton-flannel  uni- 
forms, marched  across  from  the  Herald  office  to 
escort  him  to  the  Rink,  where  he  was  to  speak.  He 
appeared  radiant  in  a  Prince  Albert  and  a  shiny  tile, 
and  a  boutonniere,  this  time  leaning  on  the  arm  of 
Mr.  Stokes,  to  the  huge  disgust  of  that  worthy  me- 
chanic, who  did  not  know  that  a  statesman  had  to 
lean  on  somebody's  arm.  It  is  hoary  tradition, 
and  yet  it  had  a  certain  significance,  too,  if  it  were 
meant  to  indicate  that  Kenyon  couldn't  keep  straight 
unless  he  was  propped. 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

A  wave  of  fitful  enthusiasm  swept  the  assembled 
crowd,  and  IVlr.  Stokes 's  youngest  son,  Samuel, 
aged  six,  burst  into  tears,  no  one  knew  why,  and  was 
led  out  of  the  press  by  an  elder  brother,  who  alter- 
nately slapped  him  and  wiped  his  nose  on  his  cap. 

Mr.  Kenyon,  smiling  his  unwearied,  mirthless 
smile,  seated  himself  in  his  carriage.  Mr.  Ryder, 
slightly  bored  and  wholly  cynical,  followed  his  ex- 
ample. Mr.  Stokes  and  Mr.  Bentick,  perspiring  and 
abject,  and  looking  for  all  the  world  like  two  crimi- 
nals, dropped  dejectedly  into  the  places  assigned 
them.  Only  Cap  Roberts  and  the  Hon.  Jeb  Bar- 
rows seemed  entirely  at  ease.  They  were  campaign 
fixtures.  The  band  emitted  a  harmony-destroying 
crash,  while  Mr.  Jimmy  Smith,  the  drum-major, 
performed  sundry  bewildering  passes  with  his  gilt 
staff.  The  Young  Men's  Kenyon  Club  fell  over  its 
own  feet  into  line,  and  the  procession  started  for  the 
Rink.  It  was  a  truly  inspiring  moment. 

As  soon  as  the  tail  of  the  procession  was  clear  of 
the  curb,  it  developed  that  Clarence  and  Spide  were 
marshalling  a  rival  demonstration.  Six  small  and 
exceedingly  dirty  youngsters,  with  reeking  torches, 
headed  by  Clarence  and  his  trusty  lieutenant,  fell 
gravely  in  at  the  rear  of  the  Kenyon  Club.  Clarence 
was  leaning  on  ^Spide's  arm.  Pussy  Roberts  pre- 
ceded them,  giving  a  highly  successful  imitation  of 
Mr.  Jimmy  Smith.  He  owned  the  six  torches,  and 
it  was  unsafe  to  suppress  him,  but  the  others  spoke 
disparagingly  of  his  performance  as  a  side-show. 

Since  an  early  hour  of  the  evening  the  people  had 
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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

been  gathering  at  the  Rink.  It  was  also  the  Opera- 
House,  where,  during  the  winter  months,  an  occa- 
sional repertory  company  appeared  in  "  East  Lynn/' 
the  "New  Magdalen/'  or  Tom  Robertson's  "Caste." 

The  place  was  two-thirds  full  at  a  quarter  to  eight, 
when  a  fleet  courier  arrived  with  the  gratifying  news 
that  the  procession  was  just  leaving  the  square,  and 
that  Kenyon  was  riding  with  his  hat  off,  and  in  fa- 
miliar discourse  with  Stokes  and  Bentick. 

Presently  out  of  the  distance  drifted  the  first 
strains  of  the  band.  A  little  later  Cap.  Roberts  and 
the  Hon.  Jeb  Barrows  appeared  on  the  make-shift 
stage  from  the  wings.  There  was  an  applausive  mur- 
mur, for  the  Hon.  Jeb  was  a  popular  character.  It 
was  said  of  him  that  he  always  carried  a  map  of  the 
United  States  in  tobacco  juice  on  his  shirt  front.  He 
was  bottle-nosed  and  red  faced.  No  man  could 
truthfully  say  he  had  ever  seen  him  drunk,  nor  had 
any  one  ever  seen  him  sober.  He  shunned  extremes. 
Next,  the  band  filed  into  the  balcony,  and  was  labor- 
iously sweating  its  way  through  the  national  an- 
them, when  Kenyon  and  Ryder  appeared,  followed 
by  the  wretched  Stokes  and  Bentick.  A  burst  of 
applause  shook  the  house.  When  it  subsided,  the 
editor  stepped  to  the  front  of  the  stage.  With  words 
that  halted,  for  the  experience  was  a  new  one,  he  in- 
troduced the  guest  of  the  evening. 

It  was  generally  agreed  afterwards  that  it  had  been 
a  great  privilege  to  hear  Kenyon.  No  one  knew  ex- 
actly what  it  was  all  about,  but  that  was  a  minor 
consideration.  The  Congressman  was  well  on 

164 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

towards  the  end  of  his  speech,  and  had  reached  the 
local  situation,  which  he  was  handling  in  what  the 
Herald  subsequently  described  as  "a  masterly 
fashion,  cool,  logical,  and  convincing,"  when  Oak- 
ley wandered  in,  and,  unobserved,  took  a  seat  near 
the  door.  He  glanced  about  him  glumly.  There 
had  been  a  time  when  these  people  had  been,  in  their 
way,  his  friends.  Now  those  nearest  him  even  avoid- 
ed looking  in  his  direction.  At  last  he  became  con- 
scious that  some  one  far  down  near  the  stage,  and  at 
the  other  side  of  the  building,  was  nodding  and  smil- 
ing at  him.  It  was  Dr.  Emory.  Mrs.  Emory  and 
Constance  were  with  him.  Dan  caught  the  fine  out- 
line of  the  latter's  profile.  She  was  smiling  an 
amused  smile.  It  was  her  first  political  meeting, 
and  she  was  finding  it  quite  as  funny  as  Ryder  had 
said  it  would  be. 

Dan  listened  idly,  hearing  only  a  word  now  and 
then.  At  length  a  sentence  roused  him.  The 
speaker  was  advising  the  men  to  stand  for  their 
rights.  He  rose  hastily,  and  turned  to  leave;  he 
had  heard  enough ;  but  some  one  cried  out,  "  Here's 
Oakley,"  and  instantly  every  one  in  the  place  was 
staring  at  him. 

Kenyon  took  a  step  nearer  the  foot-lights.  Either 
he  misunderstood  or  else  he  wished  to  provoke  an 
argument,  for  he  said,  with  slippery  civility:  "I 
shall  be  very  pleased  to  listen  to  Mr.  Oakley's  side  of 
the  question.  This  is  a  free  country,  and  I  don't 
deny  him  or  any  man  the  right  to  express  his  views. 
The  fact  that  I  am  unalterably  opposed  to  the  power 

165 


The   Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

he  represents  is  no  bar  to  the  expression  here  of  his 
opinion/' 

Oakley's  face  was  crimson.  He  paused  irreso- 
lutely; he  saw  the  jeer  on  Ryder's  lips,  and  the  de- 
sire possessed  him  to  tell  these  people  what  fools  they 
were  to  listen  to  the  cheap,  lungy  patriotism  of  the 
demagogue  on  the  stage. 

He  rested  a  hand  on  the  back  of  the  chair  in  front 
of  him,  and  leaned  forward  with  an  arm  extended 
at  the  speaker,  but  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  Miss 
Emory's  face.  She  was  smiling  at  him  encourag- 
ingly, he  thought,  bidding  him  to  speak. 

"This  is  doubtless  your  opportunity,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  would  like  to  ask  what  earthly  interest  you 
have  in  Antioch  beyond  the  votes  it  may  give  you?" 

Kenyon  smiled  blandly  and  turned  for  one  fleeting 
instant  to  wink  at  Ryder.  "  And  my  reply  is  this : 
What  about  the  twenty-million-dollar  specimen  of 
American  manhood  who  is  dodging  around  London 
on  the  money  he's  made  here  in  this  State — yes,  and 
in  this  town?  He's  gone  to  England  to  break  his 
way  into  London  society,  and,  incidentally,  to  marry 
his  daughter  to  a  title." 

A  roar  of  laughter  greeted  this  sally. 

"That  may  be,"  retorted  Oakley,  hotly,  "but  An- 
tioch has  been  getting  its  share  of  his  money,  too. 
Don't  forget  that.  There's  not  a  store-keeper  in 
this  audience  whose  bank  account  will  not  show,  in 
hard  American  dollars,  what  General  Cornish  does 
for  Antioch  when  Antioch  is  willing  to  let  him  do  for 
it.  But,  granted  that  what  you  have  said  is  true, 

166 


The   Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

who  can  best  afford  to  meet  the  present  situation? 
General  Cornish  or  these  men?  On  whom  does  the 
hardship  fall  heavier,  on  them  or  on  him?" 

"  That  was  not  the  spirit  which  prevailed  at  Bun- 
ker Hill  and  Lexington !  No,  thank  God !  our  fathers 
did  not  stop  to  count  the  cost,  and  we  have  our  bat- 
tles to-day  just  as  vital  to  the  cause  of  humanity; 
and  I,  for  one,  would  rather  see  the  strong  arm  of 
labor  wither  in  its  socket  than  submit  to  wrong  or 
injustice!" 

Oakley  choked  down  his  disgust  and  moved  tow- 
ards the  door.  There  was  applause  and  one  or  two 
cat-calls.  Not  heeding  them,  he  made  his  way  from 
the  building.  He  had  reached  the  street  when  a  de- 
taining hand  was  placed  upon  his  arm.  He  turned 
savagely,  but  it  proved  to  be  only  Turner  Joyce, 
who  stepped  to  his  side,  with  a  cheerful : 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Oakley.  They  seem  to  be  hav- 
ing a  very  gay  time  in  there,  don't  they?" 

"  Have  you  been  in?"  demanded  Oakley,  grimly. 

"I?  Oh,  no!  I  have  just  been  taking  a  picture 
home." 

"Well,"  said  Oakley,  "I  have  just  been  making  a 
damned  fool  of  myself.  I  hope  that  is  something  you 
are  never  guilty  of,  Mr.  Joyce?"  Joyce  laughed, 
and  tucked  his  hand  through  his  companion's  arm. 

"Doesn't  every  one  do  that  occasionally?"  he 
asked. 

Dan  shook  off  his  bitterness.  Recently  he  had 
been  seeing  a  great  deal  of  the  little  artist  and  his 
wife,  who  were  about  the  only  friends  he  or  his  father 

167 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

had  left  in  Antioch.  They  walked  on  in  silence. 
Joyce  was  too  tactful  to  ask  any  questions  concern- 
ing his  friend's  affairs,  so  he  ventured  an  impersonal 
criticism  on  Kenyon,  with  the  modest  diffidence  of  a 
man  who  knows  he  is  going  counter  to  public  senti- 
ment. 

"  Neither  Ruth  nor  I  had  any  curiosity  to  hear  him 
speak  to-night.  I  heard  him  when  he  was  here  last. 
It  may  be  my  bringing  up,  but  I  do  like  things  that 
are  not  altogether  rotten,  and  I'm  afraid  I  count  him 
as  sort  of  decayed."  Then  he  added:  "I  suppose 
everybody  was  at  the  Rink  to-night?" 

"The  place  was  packed." 

"It  promises  to  be  a  lively  campaign,  I  believe, 
but  I  take  very  little  interest  in  politics.  My  own 
concerns  occupy  most  of  my  time.  Won't  you  come 
in,  Mr.  Oakley?"  for  they  had  reached  his  gate. 

On  the  little  side  porch  which  opened  off  the  kitch- 
en they  found  Ruth.  She  rose  with  a  pleased  air  of 
animation  when  she  saw  who  was  with  her  husband. 
Oakley  had  lived  up  to  his  reputation  as  a  patron  of 
the  arts.  He  had  not  forgotten,  in  spite  of  his  anx- 
ieties, the  promise  made  Joyce  months  before,  and  at 
that  very  moment,  safely  bestowed  in  Mrs.  Joyce's 
possession,  were  two  formidable  -  looking  strips  of 
heavy  pink  paper,  which  guaranteed  the  passage  of 
the  holder  to  New  York  and  return. 

"  I  hope  this  confounded  strike  is  not  going  to  in- 
terfere with  you,  M,T.  Joyce,"  said  Oakley,  as  he 
seated  himself.  He  had  discovered  that  they  liked 
to  talk  about  their  own  plans  and  hopes,  and  the  trip 

168 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

East  was  the  chief  of  these.  Already  he  had  consid- 
ered it  with  them  from  every  conceivable  point  of  view. 

"  It  is  aggravating,  for,  of  course,  if  people  haven't 
money  they  can't  very  well  afford  to  have  pictures 
painted.  But  Ruth  is  managing  splendidly.  I 
really  don't  think  it  will  make  any  special  difference." 

"I  am  determined  Turner  shall  not  miss  this  op- 
portunity. I  think,  if  it  wasn't  for  me,  Mr.  Oakley, 
he'd  give  up  most  everything  he  wants  to  do,  or  has 
set  his  heart  on." 

"He's  lucky  to  have  you,  then.  Most  men  need 
looking  after." 

"I'm  sure  I  do,"  observed  the  little  artist,  with 
commendable  meekness.  He  was  keenly  alive  to 
his  own  shortcomings.  "I'd  never  get  any  sort  of 
prices  for  my  work  if  she  didn't  take  a  hand  in  the 
bargaining." 

"Some  one  has  to  be  mercenary,"  said  Ruth, 
apologetically.  "It's  all  very  well  to  go  around 
with  your  head  in  the  clouds,  but  it  don't  pay." 

"No,  it  don't  pay,"  agreed  Dan. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  which  a  cricket  improved 
to  make  itself  heard  above  the  sweep  of  the  night 
wind  through  the  tree-tops.  Then  Ruth  said:  "I 
saw  Miss  Emory  to-day.  She  asked  about  you." 

Mrs.  Joyce  and  her  husband  had  taken  a  pas- 
sionate interest  in  Oakley's  love  affair,  and  divined 
the  utter  wreck  of  his  hopes. 

"Did  she?  I  saw  her  at  the  Rink,  too,  but  of 
course  not  to  speak  with." 

Turner  Joyce  trod  gently  but  encouragingly  on 
169 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

his  wife's  foot.  He  felt  that  Oakley  would  be  none 
the  worse  for  a  little  cheer,  and  he  had  unbounded 
faith  in  his  wife's  delicacy  and  tact.  She  wras  just 
the  person  for  such  a  message. 

"She  seemed — that  is,  I  gathered  from  what  she 
said,  and  it  wasn't  so  much  what  she  said  as  what 
she  didn't  say — " 

Dan  laughed  outright,  and  Joyce  joined  in  with  a 
panic-stricken  chuckle.  Ruth  was  making  as  bad 
a  botch  of  the  business  as  he  could  have  made. 

"I  am  not  at  all  sensitive,"  said  Dan,  with  sudden 
candor.  "  I  have  admired  her  immensely ;  I  do  still, 
for  the  matter  of  that." 

"Then  why  don't  you  go  there?" 

"I  can't,  Mrs.  Joyce.     You  know  why." 

"But  I  think  she  looks  at  it  differently  now." 

Oakley  shook  his  head. 

"No,  she  doesn't.  There's  just  one  way  she  can 
look  at  it." 

"  Women  are  always  changing  their  minds,"  per- 
sisted Ruth.  It  occurred  to  her  that  Constance  had 
been  at  her  worst  in  her  relation  with  Oakley.  If  she 
cared  a  scrap  for  him,  why  hadn't  she  stood  by  him 
when  he  needed  it  most?  The  little  artist  blinked 
tenderly  at  his  wife.  He  was  lost  in  admiration  at 
her  courage.  He  would  not  have  dared  to  give  their 
friend  this  comfort. 

The  conversation  languished.  They  heard  the 
strains  of  the  band  when  the  meeting  at  the  Rink 
broke  up,  and  the  voices  of  the  people  on  the  street, 
and  then  there  was  silence  again. 

170 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  hot  days  dragged  on.  Dan  and  his  father 
moved  down  to  the  shops.  Two  cots  were 
placed  in  the  pattern-room,  where  they  slept,  and 
where  Roger  Oakley  spent  most  of  his  time  reading 
his  Bible  or  in  brooding  over  the  situation.  Their 
meals  were  brought  to  them  from  the  hotel.  It  was 
not  that  Dan  suspected  the  men  of  any  sinister  in- 
tentions, but  he  felt  it  was  just  as  well  that  they 
should  understand  the  utter  futility  of  any  lawless- 
ness, and,  besides,  his  father  was  much  happier  in 
the  solitude  of  the  empty  shops  than  he  could  have 
been  elsewhere  in  Antioch.  All  day  long  he  fol- 
lowed McClintock  about,  helping  with  such  odd 
jobs  as  were  necessary  to  keep  the  machinery  in 
perfect  order.  He  was  completely  crushed  and 
broken  in  spirit.  He  had  aged,  too. 

At  the  office  Dan  saw  only  Holt  and  McClintock. 
Sick  of  Kerr's  presence,  and  exasperated  at  his  evi- 
dent sympathy  for  the  strikers — a  sympathy  he  was 
at  no  pains  to  conceal — he  had  laid  him  off,  a  step 
that  was  tantamount  to  dismissal.  Miss  Walton 
was  absent  on  her  vacation,  which  he  extended  from 
week  to  week.  It  was  maddening  to  him  to  have  her 
around  with  nothing  to  do,  for  he  and  Holt  found  it 

171 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

difficult  to  keep  decently  busy  themselves,  now  the 
shops  had  closed. 

Holloway,  the  vice-president  of  the  road,  visited 
Antioch  just  once  during  the  early  days  of  the  strike. 
He  approved — being  of  an  approving  disposition — of 
all  Oakley  had  done,  and  then  went  back  home  to 
Chicago,  after  telling  him  not  to  yield  a  single  point 
in  the  fight. 

"We've  got  to  starve  'em  into  submission,"  said 
this  genial  soul.  "There's  nothing  like  an  empty 
stomach  to  sap  a  man's  courage,  especially  when 
he's  got  a  houseful  of  hungry,  squalling  brats.  I 
don't  know  but  what  you'd  better  arrange  to  get 
in  foreigners.  Americans  are  too  independent." 

But  Oakley  was  opposed  to  this.  "The  men  will 
be  glad  enough  to  accept  the  new  scale  of  wages  a 
little  later,  and  the  lesson  won't  be  wasted  on  them." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  the  question  is,  do  we  want  'em? 
I  wish  Cornish  was  here.  I  think  he'd  advise  some 
radical  move.  He's  all  fight." 

Oakley,  however,  was  devoutly  thankful  that  the 
general  was  in  England,  where  he  hoped  he  would 
stay.  He  had  no  wish  to  see  the  men  ruined.  A 
wholesome  lesson  would  suffice.  He  was  much  re- 
lieved when  the  time  arrived  to  escort  Holloway  to 
his  train. 

All  this  while  the  Herald  continued  its  attacks,  but 
Dan  no  longer  minded  them.  Nothing  Ryder  could 
say  could  augment  his  unpopularity.  It  had  reached 
its  finality.  He  never  guessed  that,  indirectly  at 
least,  Constance  Emory  was  responsible  for  by  far 

172 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

the  greater  part  of  Ryder's  present  bitterness.  She 
.objected  to  his  partisanship  of  the  men,  and  this  only 
served  to  increase  his  verbal  intemperance.  But,  in 
spite  of  the  antagonism  of  their  views,  they  remained 
friends.  Constance  was  willing  to  endure  much 
from  Ryder  that  she  would  have  resented  from  any 
one  else.  She  liked  him,  and  she  was  sorry  for  him ; 
he  seemed  unhappy,  and  she  imagined  he  suffered 
as  she  herself  suffered,  and  from  the  same  cause. 
There  was  still  another  motive  for  her  forbearance, 
which,  perhaps,  she  did  not  fully  realize.  The  strike 
and  Oakley  had  become  a  mania  with  the  editor,  and 
from  him  she  was  able  to  learn  what  Dan  was  doing. 

The  unpopularity  of  his  son  was  a  source  of  in- 
finite grief  to  Roger  Oakley.  The  more  so  as  he 
took  the  burden  of  it  on  his  own  shoulders.  He 
brooded  over  it  until  presently  he  decided  that  he 
would  have  a  talk  with  Ryder  and  explain  matters  to 
him,  and  ask  him  to  discontinue  his  abuse  of  Dan. 
There  was  a  streak  in  the  old  convict's  mind  which 
was  hardly  sane,  for  no  man  spends  the  best  years 
of  his  life  in  prison  and  comes  out  as  clear-headed 
as  he  goes  in. 

As  he  pottered  about  the  shops  with  McClintock, 
he  meditated  on  his  project.  He  was  sure,  if  he 
could  show  Ryder  where  he  was  wrong  and  un- 
fair, he  would  hasten  to  make  amends.  It  never 
occurred  to  him  that  Ryder  had  merely  followed  in 
the  wake  of  public  opinion,  giving  it  definite  ex- 
pression. 

One  evening — and  he  chose  the  hour  when  he  knew 
173 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

Antioch  would  be  at  supper  and  the  streets  deserted— 
he  stole  from  the  shops,  without  telling  Dan  where  he 
was  going,  as  he  had  a  shrewd  idea  that  he  would  put 
a  veto  on  his  scheme  did  he  know  of  it. 

With  all  his  courage  his  pace  slackened  as  he  ap- 
proached the  Herald  office.  He  possessed  unbound- 
ed respect  for  print,  and  still  greater  respect  for  the 
man  who  spoke  in  print. 

The  door  stood  open,  and  he  looked  in  over  the  top 
of  his  steel-bowed  spectacles.  The  office  was  dark 
and  shadowy,  but  from  an  inner  room,  where  the 
presses  stood,  a  light  shone.  While  he  hesitated, 
the  half-grown  boy  who  was  Griff's  chief  assistant 
came  from  the  office.  Roger  Oakley  placed  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder. 

"Is  Mr.  Ryder  in,  sonny?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  he's  in  the  back  room,  where  you  see  the 
light." 

"Thank  you." 

He  found  Ryder  busy  making  up,  by  the  light  of  a 
single  dingy  lamp,  for  the  Herald  went  to  press  in 
the  morning.  Griff  gave  a  start  of  surprise  when  he 
saw  who  his  visitor  was;  then  he  said,  sharply, 
"  Well,  sir,  what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

It  was  the  first  time  the  old  convict  and  the  editor 
had  met,  and  Roger  Oakley,  peering  over  his  spec- 
tacles, studied  Ryder's  face  in  his  usual  slow  fashion. 
At  last  he  said:  "I  hope  I  am  not  intruding,  Mr. 
Ryder,  for  I'd  like  to  speak  with  you." 

"  Then  be  quick  about  it,"  snapped  Griff.  "  Don't 
you  see  I'm  busy?" 

174 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

With  the  utmost  deliberation  the  old  convict  took 
from  his  pocket  a  large  red-and-yellow  bandanna 
handkerchief.  Then  he  removed  his  hat  and  wiped 
his  face  and  neck  with  elaborate  thoroughness.  When 
he  finally  spoke  he  dropped  his  voice  to  an  impressive 
whisper.  "I  don't  think  you  understand  Dannie, 
Mr.  Ryder,  or  the  reasons  for  the  trouble  down  at  the 
shops/' 

"  Don't  I?  Well,  I'll  be  charmed  to  hear  your  ex- 
planation." And  he  put  down  the  rule  with  which 
he  had  been  measuring  one  of  the  printed  columns 
on  the  table  before  him. 

Without  being  asked  Roger  Oakley  seated  him- 
self in  a  chair  by  the  door.  He  placed  his  hat  and 
handkerchief  on  a  corner  of  the  table,  and  took  off 
his  spectacles,  which  he  put  into  their  case.  Ryder 
watched  him  with  curious  interest. 

"  I  knew  we  could  settle  this,  Mr.  Ryder,"  said  he, 
with  friendly  simplicity.  "You've  been  unfair  to 
my  son.  That  was  because  you  did  not  understand. 
When  you  do,  I  am  certain  you  will  do  what  you  can 
to  make  right  the  wrong  you  have  done  him." 

A  vicious,  sinister  smile  wreathed  Ryder's  lips. 
He  nodded.  "Goon." 

"  Dannie's  done  nothing  to  you  to  make  you  wish 
to  hurt  him — for  you  are  hurting  him.  He  don't 
admit  it,  but  I  know." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Ryder,  tersely.  "I  should  hate 
to  think  my  energy  had  been  entirely  wasted." 

A  look  of  pained  surprise  crossed  Roger  Oakley's 
face.  He  was  quite  shocked  at  the  unchristian 

175 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

feeling  Griff  was  displaying.  "  No,  you  don't  mean 
that!"  he  made  haste  to  say.  "You  can't  mean  it." 

"Can't  I?"  cynically. 

Roger  Oakley  stole  a  glance  from  under  his  thick, 
bushy  eyebrows  at  the  editor.  He  wondered  if  an 
apt  quotation  from  the  Scriptures  would  be  of  any 
assistance.  The  moral  logic  with  which  he  had  in- 
tended to  overwhelm  him  had  somehow  gone  astray- 
He  presented  the  singular  spectacle  of  a  man  who 
was  in  the  wrong,  and  who  knew  he  was  in  the  wrong 
and  was  yet  determined  to  persist  in  it. 

"There's  something  I'll  tell  you  that  I  haven't  told 
any  one  else."  He  glanced  again  at  Ryder  to  see  the 
effect  of  the  proposed  confidence,  and  again  the  latter 
nodded  for  him  to  go  on. 

"I  am  going  away.  I  haven't  told  my  son  yet, 
but  I've  got  it  all  planned,  and  when  I  am  gone  you 
won't  have  any  reason  to  hate  Dannie,  will  you?" 

"That's  an  admirable  idea,  Mr.  Oakley,  and  if 
Dannie,  as  you  call  him,  has  half  your  good -sense 
he'll  follow  your  example." 

"No;  he  can't  leave.  He  must  stay.  He's  the 
manager  of  the  road,"  with  evident  pride.  "He's 
got  to  stay,  but  I'll  go.  Won't  that  do  just  as  well?" 
a  little  anxjously,  for  he  could  not  fathom  the  look 
on  Ryder's  dark  face.  Ryder  only  gave  him  a  smile 
in  answer,  and  he  continued,  hurriedly : 

"You  see,  the  trouble's  been  about  me  and  my 
working  in  the  shops.  If  I  hadn't  come  here  there 'd 
have  been  no  strike.  As  for  Dannie,  he's  made  a 
man  of  himself.  You  don't  know,  and  I  don't  know, 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

how  hard  he's  worked  and  how  faithful  he's  been. 
What  I've  done  mustn't  reflect  on  him.  It  all  har> 
pened  when  he  was  a  little  boy — so  high/' extending 
his  hand. 

"  Mr.  Oakley/'  said  Ryder,  coldly  and  insultingly, 
"  I  propose,  if  I  can,  to  make  this  town  too  hot  to  hold 
your  son,  and  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  the  uncon- 
scious compliment  you  have  paid  me  by  this  visit." 

"  Dannie  don't  know  I  came,"  quickly. 

"  No,  I  don't  suppose  he  does.  I  take  it  it  was  an 
inspiration  of  your  own." 

Roger  Oakley  had  risen  from  his  seat. 

"What's  Dannie  ever  done  to  you?"  he  asked, 
with  just  the  least  perceptible  tremor  in  his  tones. 

Ryder  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  We  don't  need 
him  in  Antioch." 

The  old  man  mastered  his  wrath,  and  said, 
gently : 

"You  can't  afford  to  be  unfair,  Mr.  Ryder.  No 
one  can  afford  to  be  unfair.  You  are  too  young  a 
man  to  persevere  in  what  you  know  to  be  wrong." 

To  maintain  his  composure  required  a  great  effort. 
In  the  riotous  days  of  his  youth  he  had  concluded 
most  arguments  in  which  he  had  become  involved 
with  his  fists.  Aged  and  broken,  his  religion  over- 
lay his  still  vigorous  physical  strength  but  thinly,  as 
a  veneer.  He  squared  his  massive  shoulders  and 
stood  erect,  like  a  man  in  his  prime,  and  glowered 
heavily  on  the  editor. 

"  I  trust  you  have  always  been  able  to  make  right 
your  guiding  star,"  retorted  Ryder,  jeeringly.  The 
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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

anger  instantly  faded  from  the  old  convict's  face. 
He  was  recalled  to  himself. 

Ordinarily,  that  is,  in  the  presence  of  others,  Ryder 
would  have  felt  bound  to  treat  Roger  Oakley  with 
the  deference  due  to  his  years.  Alone,  as  they  were, 
he  was  restrained  by  no  such  obligation.  He  was  in 
an  ugly  mood,  and  he  proceeded  to  give  it  rein. 

"I  wish  to  hell  you'd  mind  your  own  business," 
he  said,  suddenly.  "  What  do  you  mean  by  coming 
here  to  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do?  If  you  want  to 
know,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do.  I  am  going 
to  hound  you  and  that  precious  son  of  yours  out  of 
this  part  of  the  country." 

The  old  man  straightened  up  again  as  Ryder 
spoke.  The  restraint  of  years  dropped  from  him  in 
a  twinkling.  He  told  him  he  was  a  scoundrel,  and 
he  prefaced  it  with  an  oath — a  slip  he  did  not  notice 
in  his  excitement. 

"Hey!    What's  that?" 

"You're  a  damned  scoundrel!"  repeated  Roger 
Oakley,  white  with  rage.  He  took  a  step  around 
the  table  and  came  nearer  the  editor.  "I  don't 
know  but  what  I  ought  to  break  every  bone  in  your 
body!  You  are  trying  to  ruin  my  son!"  He  hit 
the  table  a  mighty  blow  with  his  clinched  fist,  and, 
thrusting  his  head  fonvard,  glared  into  Ryder's  face. 

"  You  have  turned  his  friends  against  him.  Why, 
he  ain't  got  none  left  any  more.  They  have  all  gone 
over  to  the  other  side ;  and  you  done  it,  you  done  it, 
and  it's  got  to  stop!" 

Ryder  had  been  taken  aback  for  the  moment  by 
178 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

Roger  Oakley's  fierce  anger,  which  vibrated  in  his 
voice  and  flashed  in  his  dark,  sunken  eyes. 

"Get  out  of  here/'  he  shouted,  losing  control  of 
himself.  "Get  out  or,  damn  you,  I'll  kick  you  out!" 

"When  I'm  ready  to  go  I'll  leave,"  retorted  the 
old  man,  calmly,  "  and  that  will  be  when  I've  said  my 
say." 

"You'll  go  now,"  and  he  shoved  him  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  door.  The  shove  was  almost  a  blow, 
and  as  it  fell  on  his  broad  chest  Roger  Oakley  gave 
a  hoarse,  inarticulate  cry  and  struck  out  with  his 
heavy  hand.  Ryder  staggered  back,  caught  at  the 
end  of  the  table  as  he  plunged  past  it,  and  fell  his 
length  upon  the  floor.  The  breath  whistled  sharply 
from  the  old  man's  lips.  "There,"  he  muttered, 
"  you'll  keep  your  hands  off ! " 

Ryder  did  not  speak  nor  move.  All  was  hushed 
and  still  in  the  room.  Suddenly  a  nervous  chill 
seized  the  old  convict.  He  shook  from  head  to  heel. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  hit  you,"  he  said,  speaking  to 
the  prostrate  figure  at  his  feet.  "  Here,  let  me  help 
you." 

He  stooped  and  felt  around  on  the  floor  until  he 
found  Ryder's  hand.  He  released  it  instantly  to 
take  the  lamp  from  the  table.  Then  he  knelt  beside 
the  editor.  In  the  corner  where  the  latter  lay  stood 
a  rusty  wood -stove.  In  his  fall  Griff's  head  had 
struck  against  it. 

The  lamp  shook  in  Roger  Oakley's  hand  like  a 
leaf  in  a  gale.  Ryder's  eyes  were  open  and  seemed 
to  look  into  his  own  with  a  mute  reproach.  For  the 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

rest  he  lay  quite  limp,  his  head  twisted  to  one  side. 
The  old  man  felt  of  his  heart.  One  or  two  minutes 
elapsed.  His  bearing  was  one  of  feverish  intensity. 
He  heard  three  men  loiter  by  on  the  street,  and  the 
sound  of  their  footfalls  die  off  in  the  distance,  but 
Ryder's  heart  had  ceased  to  beat.  Fully  convinced 
of  this,  he  returned  the  lamp  to  the  table  and,  sit- 
ting down  in  the  chair  by  the  door,  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands  and  sobbed  aloud. 

Over  and  over  he  murmured :  "  I've  killed  him,  I've 
killed  him !  Poor  boy !  poor  boy  I  I  didn't  go  to  do 
it!" 

Presently  he  got  up  and  made  a  second  examina- 
tion. The  man  was  dead  past  every  doubt.  His 
first  impulse  was  to  surrender  himself  to  the  town 
marshal,  as  he  had  done  once  before  under  similar 
circumstances. 

Then  he  thought  of  Dan. 

No,  he  must  escape,  and  perhaps  it  would  never  be 
known  who  had  killed  Ryder.  His  death  might  even 
be  attributed  to  an  accident.  In  his  excitement  he 
forgot  the  boy  he  had  met  at  the  door.  That  inci- 
dent had  passed  entirely  from  his  mind,  and  he  did 
not  remember  the  meeting  until  days  afterwards. 

He  had  been  utterly  indifferent  to  his  own  danger, 
but  now  he  extinguished  the  lamp  and  made  his  way 
cautiously  into  the  outer  room  and  peered  into  the 
street.  As  he  crouched  in  the  darkness  by  the  door 
he  heard  the  town  bell  strike  the  hour.  He  counted 
the  strokes.  It  was  eight  o'clock.  An  instant 
later  and  he  was  hurrying  down  the  street,  fleeing 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

from  the  ghastly  horror  of  the  white,  upturned  face, 
and  the  eyes,  with  their  look  of  mute  reproach. 

When  he  reached  the  railroad  track  at  the  foot  of 
Main  Street,  he  paused  irresolutely. 

" If  I  could  see  Dannie  once  more,  just  once  more!" 
he  muttered,  under  his  breath;  but  he  crossed  the 
tracks  with  a  single,  longing  look  turned  towards 
the  shops,  a  black  blur  in  the  night  a  thousand  yards 
distant. 

Main  Street  became  a  dusty  country  road  south  of 
the  tracks.  He  left  it  at  this  point  and  skirted  a 
cornfield,  going  in  the  direction  of  the  creek. 

At  the  shops  Dan  had  waited  supper  for  his  father 
until  half-past  seven,  when  he  decided  he  must  have 
gone  up-town,  probably  to  the  Joyces'.  So  he  had 
eaten  his  supper  alone.  Then  he  drew  his  chair  in 
front  of  an  open  window  and  lighted  his  pipe.  It 
was  very  hot  in  the  office,  and  by-and-by  he  carried 
his  lamp  into  the  pattern-room,  where  he  and  his  fa- 
ther slept.  He  arranged  their  two  cots,  blew  out 
the  light,  which  seemed  to  add  to  the  heat,  partly 
undressed,  and  lay  down.  He  heard  the  town  bell 
strike  eight,  and  then  the  half-hour.  Shortly  after 
this  he  must  have  fallen  asleep,  for  all  at  once  he 
awoke  with  a  start.  From  off  in  the  night  a  con- 
fusion of  sounds  reached  him.  The  town  bell  was 
ringing  the  alarm.  At  first  he  thought  it  was  a 
fire,  but  there  was  no  light  in  the  sky,  and  the  bell 
rang  on  and  on. 

He  got  up  and  put  on  his  coat  and  hat  and  started 
out. 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

It  was  six  blocks  to  the  Herald  office,  and  as  he 
neared  it  he  could  distinguish  a  group  of  excited, 
half-dressed  men  and  women  where  they  clustered 
on  the  sidewalk  before  the  building.  A  carriage 
was  standing  in  the  street. 

He  elbowed  into  the  crowd  unnoticed  and  un- 
recognized. A  small  boy,  who  had  climbed  into  the 
low  boughs  of  a  maple-tree,  how  shouted  in  a  perfect 
frenzy  of  excitement :  "  Hi !  They  are  bringing  him 
out!  Jimmy  Smith's  got  him  by  the  legs!" 

At  the  same  moment  Chris.  Berry  appeared  in  the 
doorway.  The  crowd  stood  on  tiptoe,  breathless, 
tense,  and  waiting. 

"Drive  up  a  little  closter,  Tom,"  Berry  called  to 
the  man  in  the  carriage.  Then  he  stepped  to  one 
side,  and  two  men  pushed  past  him  carrying  the 
body  of  Ryder  between  them.  The  crowd  gave  a 
groan. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

RYDER'S  murder  furnished  Antioch  with  a  sen- 
sation the  like  of  which  it  had  not  known  in 
many  a  day.  It  was  one  long,  breathless  shudder, 
ramified  with  contingent  horrors. 

Dippy  Ellsworth  remembered  that  when  he  drove 
up  in  his  cart  on  the  night  of  the  tragedy  to  light  the 
street  lamp  which  stood  on  the  corner  by  the  Herald 
office  his  horse  had  balked  and  refused  to  go  near  the 
curb.  It  was  generally  conceded  that  the  sagacious 
brute  smelled  blood.  Dippy  himself  said  he  would 
not  sell  that  horse  for  a  thousand  dollars,  and  it 
was  admitted  on  all  sides  that  such  an  animal  pos- 
sessed a  value  hard  to  reckon  in  mere  dollars  and 
cents. 

Three  men  recalled  that  they  had  passed  the 
Herald  office  and  noticed  that  the  door  stood  open. 
Within  twenty-four  hours  they  were  hearing  groans, 
and  within  a  week,  cries  for  help,  but  they  were  not 
encouraged. 

Of  course  the  real  hero  was  Bob  Bennett,  Ryder's 
assistant,  who  had  discovered  the  body  when  he  went 
back  to  the  office  at  half-past  eight  to  close  the  forms. 
His  account  of  the  finding  of  Ryder  dead  on  the  floor 
was  an  exceedingly  grizzly  narrative,  delightfully 

183 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

conducive  of  the  shivers.  He  had  been  the  quietest 
of  youths,  but  two  weeks  after  the  murder  he  left  for 
Chicago.  He  said  there  might  be  those  who  could 
stand  it,  but  Antioch  was  too  slow  for  him. 

Not  less  remarkable  was  Ryder's  posthumous 
fame.  Men  who  had  never  known  him  in  life  now 
spoke  of  him  with  trembling  voices  and  every  out- 
ward evidence  of  the  sincerest  sorrow.  It  was  as  if 
they  had  sustained  a  personal  loss,  for  his  champion- 
ship of  the  strike  had  given  him  a  great  popularity, 
and  his  murder,  growing  out  of  this  championship, 
as  all  preferred  to  believe,  made  his  death  seem  a 
species  of  martyrdom. 

Indeed,  the  mere  fact  that  he  had  been  murdered 
would  have  been  sufficient  to  make  him  popular  at 
any  time.  He  had  supplied  Antioch  with  a  glorious 
sensation.  It  was  something  to  talk  over  and  dis- 
cuss and  shudder  at,  and  the  town  was  grateful  and 
happy,  with  the  deep,  calm  joy  of  a  perfect  emotion. 

It  determined  to  give  him  a  funeral  which  should 
be  creditable  alike  to  the  cause  for  which  he  had  died 
and  to  the  manner  of  his  death.  So  widespread  was 
the  feeling  that  none  should  be  denied  a  share  in  this 
universal  expression  of  respect  and  grief  that  Jeffy 
found  it  easy  to  borrow  five  pairs  of  trousers,  four 
coats,  and  a  white  vest  to  wear  to  the  funeral ;  but, 
in  spite  of  these  unusual  preparations,  he  was  un- 
able to  be  present. 

Meanwhile  Dan  had  been  arrested,  examined,  and 
set  at  liberty  again,  in  the  face  of  the  prevailing 
sentiment  that  he  should  be  held.  No  one  doubted 

184 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

—  he  himself  least  of  all — that  Roger  Oakley  had 
killed  Ryder.  Bob  Bennett  recalled  their  meeting 
as  he  left  the  office  to  go  home  for  supper  on  the 
night  of  the  murder,  and  a  red-and-yellow  bandanna 
handkerchief  was  found  under  the  table  which  Dan 
identified  as  having  belonged  to  his  father. 

Kenyon  came  to  Antioch  and  made  his  re-elec- 
tion almost  certain  by  the  offer  of  a  reward  of  five 
hundred  dollars  for  the  arrest  and  conviction  of  the 
murderer.  This  stimulated  a  wonderful  measure  of 
activity.  Parties  of  men  and  boys  were  soon  scour- 
ing the  woods  and  fields  in  quest  of  the  old  convict. 

The  day  preceding  that  of  the  funeral  a  dusty 
countryman,  on  a  hard-ridden  piough-horse,  dashed 
into  town  with  the  news  that  a  man  who  answered 
perfectly  to  the  description  of  Roger  Oakley  had 
been  seen  the  night  before  twenty-six  miles  north  of 
Antioch,  at  a  place  called  Barrow's  Saw  Mills,  where 
he  had  stopped  at  a  store  and  made  a  number  of 
purchases.  Then  he  had  struck  off  through  the 
woods.  It  was  also  learned  that  he  had  eaten  his 
breakfast  the  morning  after  the  murder  at  a  farm- 
house midway  between  Antioch  and  Barrow's  Saw 
Mills.  The  farmer's  wife  had,  at  his  request,  put  up 
a  lunch  for  him.  Later  in  the  day  a  man  at  work  in 
a  field  had  seen  and  spoken  with  him. 

There  was  neither  railroad,  telegraph,  nor  tele- 
phone at  Barrow's  Saw  Mills,  and  the  fugitive  had 
evidently  considered  it  safe  to  venture  into  the  place, 
trusting  that  he  was  ahead  of  the  news  of  his  crime. 
It  was  on  the  edge  of  a  sparsely  settled  district,  and 

185 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

to  the  north  of  it  was  the  unbroken  wilderness 
stretching  away  to  the  lakes  and  the  Wisconsin  line. 

The  morning  of  the  funeral  an  extra  edition  of  the 
Herald  was  issued,  which  contained  a  glowing  ac- 
count of  Ryder's  life  and  achievements.  It  was  an 
open  secret  that  it  was  from  the  gifted  pen  of  Kenyon. 
This  notable  enterprise  was  one  of  the  wonders  of 
the  day.  Everybody  wanted  a  Herald  as  a  souvenir 
of  the  occasion,  and  nearly  five  hundred  copies  were 
sold. 

All  that  morning  the  country  people,  in  unheard- 
of  numbers,  flocked  into  town.  As  Clarence  re- 
marked to  Spide,  it  was  just  like  a  circus  day.  The 
noon  train  from  Buckhorn  Junction  arrived  crowded 
to  the  doors,  as  did  the  one-o'clock  train  from  Har- 
rison. Antioch  had  never  known  anything  like  it. 

The  funeral  was  at  two  o'clock  from  the  little 
white  frame  Methodist  church,  but  long  before  the 
appointed  hour  it  was  crowded  to  the  verge  of  suf- 
focation, and  the  anxious,  waiting  throng  overflowed 
into  the  yard  and  street,  with  never  a  hope  of  wedg- 
ing into  the  building,  much  less  securing  seats. 

A  delegation  of  the  strikers,  the  Young  Men's 
Kenyon  Club,  of  which  Ryder  was  a  member,  and  a 
representative  body  of  citizens  escorted  the  remains 
to  the  church.  These  were  the  people  he  had  jeered 
at,  whose  simple  joys  he  had  ridiculed,  and  whose 
griefs  he  had  made  light  of,  but  they  would  gladly 
have  forgiven  him  his  sarcasms  even  had  they  known 
of  them.  He  had  become  a  hero  and  a  martyr. 

Chris  Berry  and  Cap  Roberts  were  in  charge  of 
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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

the  arrangements.  On  the  night  of  the  murder  the 
former  had  beaten  his  rival  to  the  Herald  office  by 
exactly  three  minutes,  and  had  never  left  Ryder 
until  he  lay  in  the  most  costly  casket  in  his  shop. 

It  was  admitted  afterwards  by  thoughtful  men,  who 
were  accustomed  to  weigh  their  opinions  careful- 
ly, that  Mr.  Williamson,  the  minister,  had  never  de- 
livered so  moving  an  address,  nor  one  that  contained 
so  obvious  a  moral.  The  drift  of  his  remarks  was 
that  the  death  of  their  brilliant  and  distinguished 
fellow-townsman  should  serve  as  a  warning  to  all 
that  there  was  no  time  like  the  present  in  which  to 
prepare  for  the  life  everlasting.  He  assured  his  au- 
dience that  each  hour  of  existence  should  be  devoted 
to  consecration  and  silent  testimony;  otherwise, 
what  did  it  avail?  It  was  not  enough  that  Ryder 
had  thrown  the  weight  of  his  personal  influence  and 
exceptional  talents  on  the  side  of  sound  morality 
and  civic  usefulness.  And  as  he  soared  on  from 
point  to  point,  his  hearers  soared  with  him,  and 
when  he  rounded  in  on  each  well-tried  climax,  they 
rounded  in  with  him.  He  never  failed  them  once. 
They  always  knew  what  he  was  going  to  say  before 
it  was  said,  and  were  ready  for  the  thrill  when  the 
thrill  was  due.  It  might  have  seemed  that  Mr. 
Williamson  was  paid  a  salary  merely  to  make  an 
uncertain  hereafter  yet  more  uncomfortable  and  un- 
certain, but  Antioch  took  its  religion  hot,  with  a 
shiver  and  a  threat  of  blue  flame. 

When  Mr.  Williamson  sat  down  Mr.  Kenyon  rose. 
As  a  layman  he  could  be  entirely  eulogistic.  He 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

was  sure  of  the  faith  which  through  life  had  been 
the  guiding  star  of  the  departed.  He  had  seen  it 
instanced  by  numerous  acts  of  eminently  Christian 
benevolence,  and  on  those  rare  occasions  when  he 
had  spoken  of  his  hopes  and  fears  he  had,  in  spite 
of  his  shrinking  modesty,  shown  that  his  standards 
of  Christian  duty  were  both  lofty  and  consistent. 

Here  the  Hon.  Jeb  Barrows,  who  had  been  dozing 
peacefully,  awoke  with  a  start,  and  gazed  with  wide, 
bulging  eyes  at  the  speaker.  He  followed  Mr.  Ken- 
yon,  and,  though  he  tried  hard,  he  couldn't  recall  any 
expression  of  Ryder's,  at  the  Red  Star  bar  or  else- 
where, which  indicated  that  there  was  any  spiritual 
uplift  to  his  nature  which  he  fed  at  secret  altars; 
so  he  pictured  the  friend  and  citizen,  and  the  dead 
fared  well  at  his  hands,  perhaps  better  than  he  was 
conscious  of,  for  he  said  no  more  than  he  believed. 

Then  came  the  prayer  and  hymn,  to  be  succeed- 
ed by  a  heavy,  solemn  pause,  and  Mr.  Williamson 
stepped  to  the  front  of  the  platform. 

"  All  those  who  care  to  view  the  remains — and  I 
presume  there  are  many  here  who  will  wish  to  look 
upon  the  face  of  our  dead  friend  before  it  is  conveyed 
to  its  final  resting-place — will  please  form  in  line  at 
the  rear  of  the  edifice  and  advance  quietly  up  the 
right  aisle,  passing  across  the  church  as  quickly  as 
possible  and  thence  down  the  left  aisle  and  on  out 
through  the  door.  This  will  prevent  confusion  and 
make  it  much  pleasanter  for  all." 

There  was  a  rustle  of  skirts  and  the  awkward 
shuffling  of  many  feet  as  the  congregation  formed 

188 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

in  line;  then  it  filed  slowly  up  the  aisle  to  where 
Chris  Berry  stood,  weazened  and  dry,  with  a  vulture 
look  on  his  face  and  a  vulture  touch  to  his  hands 
that  now  and  again  picked  at  the  flowers  which 
were  banked  about  the  coffin. 

The  Emorys,  partly  out  of  regard  for  public  senti- 
ment, had  attended  the  funeral,  for,  as  the  doctor 
said,  they  were  the  only  real  friends  Griff  had  in  the 
town.  They  had  known  and  liked  him  when  the  rest 
of  Antioch  was  dubiously  critical  of  the  new-comer, 
whose  ways  were  not  its  ways. 

When  the  congregation  thronged  up  the  aisle, 
Constance,  who  had  endured  the  long  service,  which 
to  her  was  unspeakably  grotesque  and  horrible,  in 
shocked  if  silent  rebellion  slipped  her  hand  into  her 
mother's.  "Take  me  away,"  she  whispered,  broken- 
ly, "or  I  shall  cry  outl  Take  me  away!" 

Mrs.  Emory  hesitated.  It  seemed  a  desertion  of  a 
trust  to  go  and  leave  Griff  to  these  strangers,  who 
had  been  brought  there  by  morbid  curiosity.  Con- 
stance guessed  what  was  passing  in  her  mind. 

"Papa  will  remain  if  it  is  necessary." 

Mrs.  Emory  touched  the  doctor  on  the  •  shoulder. 
"We're  going  home,  John;  Constance  doesn't  feel 
well;  but  you  stay." 

When  they  reached  the  street  the  last  vestige  of 
Constance's  self-control  vanished  utterly.  "  Wasn't 
it  awful!"  she  sobbed,  "and  his  life  had  only  just 
begun !  And  to  be  snuffed  out  like  this,  when  there 
was  everything  to  live  for!" 

Mrs.  Emory,  surprised  at  the  sudden  show  of  feel- 
189 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

ing,  looked  into   her  daughter's    face.     Constance 
understood  the  look. 

"No,  no!  He  was  only  a  friend!  He  could 
never  have  been  more  than  that.  Poor,  poor  Griff!" 

"I  am  glad  for  your  sake,  dearie,"  said  Mrs. 
Emory,  gently. 

"  I  wasn't  very  kind  to  him  at  the  last,  but  I  couldn't 
know — I  couldn't  know,"  she  moaned. 

She  was  not  much  given  to  these  confidences, 
even  with  her  mother.  Usually  she  never  ques- 
tioned the  wisdom  or  righteousness  of  her  own  acts, 
and  it  was  not  her  habit  to  put  them  to  the  test  of  a 
less  generous  judgment.  But  she  was  remembering 
her  last  meeting  with  Ryder.  It  had  been  the  day 
before  his  death ;  he  had  told  her  that  he  loved  her, 
and  she  had  flared  up,  furious  and  resentful,  with 
the  dull,  accusing  ache  of  many  days  in  her  heart, 
and  a  cruel  readiness  to  make  him  suffer.  She  had 
tried  to  convince  herself  afterwards  that  it  was  only 
his  vanity  that  was  hurt. 

Then  she  thought  of  Oakley.  She  had  been  think- 
ing of  him  all  day,  wondering  where  he  was,  if 
he  had  left  Antioch,  and  not  daring  to  ask.  They 
were  going  up  the  path  now  towards  the  house,  and 
she  turned  to  her  mother  again. 

"  What  do  they  say  of  Mr.  Oakley — I  mean  Mr. 
Dan  Oakley?  I  don't  know  why,  but  I'm  more  sor- 
ry for  him  than  I  am  for  Griff;  he  has  so  much 
to  bear!" 

"  I  heard  jrour  father  say  he  was  still  here.  I  sup- 
pose he  has  to  remain.  He  can't  choose." 

190 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"  What  will  be  done  with  his  father  if  he  is  capt- 
ured? Will  they — "  She  could  not  bring  herself  to 
finish  the  sentence. 

"  Goodness  knows !  I  wouldn't  worry  about  him/' 
said  Mrs.  Emory,  in  a  tone  of  considerable  asperity. 
"  He's  made  all  the  trouble,  and  I  haven't  a  particle 
of  patience  with  him!" 


CHAPTER  XX 

BY  three  o'clock  the  saloons  and  stores,  which 
had  closed  at  noon,  opened  their  doors,  and  An- 
tioch  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  its  funeral  gloom. 

By  four  o'clock  a  long  procession  of  carriages  and 
wagons  was  rumbling  out  of  town.  Those  who 
had  come  from  a  distance  were  going  home,  but 
many  lingered  in  the  hope  that  the  excitement  was 
not  all  past. 

An  hour  later  a  rumor  reached  Antioch  that  Roger 
Oakley  had  been  captured.  It  spread  about  the 
streets  like  wildfire  and  penetrated  to  the  stores 
and  saloons.  At  first  it  was  not  believed. 

Just  who  was  responsible  for  the  rumor  no  one 
knew,  and  no  one  cared,  but  soon  the  additional 
facts  were  being  vouched  for  by  a  score  of  excited 
men  that  a  search-party  from  Barrow's  Saw  Mills, 
which  had  been  trailing  the  fugitive  for  two  days, 
had  effected  his  capture  after  a  desperate  fight  in  the 
northern  woods,  and  were  bringing  him  to  Antioch 
for  identification.  It  was  generally  understood  that 
if  the  prisoner  proved  to  be  Roger  Oakley  he  would 
be  spared  the  uncertainty  of  a  trial.  The  threat 
was  made  openly  that  he  would  be  strung  up  to  the 
first  convenient  lamp-post.  As  Mr.  Britt  remarked 

192 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

to  a  customer  from  Harrison,  for  whom  he  was  mix- 
ing a  cocktail : 

"  It  'd  be  a  pity  to  keep  a  man  of  his  years  wait- 
ing ;  and  what's  the  use  of  spending  thousands  of 
dollars  for  a  conviction,  anyhow,  when  everybody 
knows  he  done  it?" 

At  this  juncture  Jim  Brown,  the  sheriff,  and  Joe 
Weaver,  the  town  marshal,  were  seen  to  cross  the 
square  with  an  air  of  importance  and  preoccupation. 
It  was  noted  casually  that  the  right-hand  coat-pocket 
of  each  sagged  suggestively.  They  disappeared 
into  McElroy's  livery-stable.  Fifty  men  and  boys 
rushed  precipitately  in  pursuit,  and  were  just  in 
time  to  see  the  two  officers  pass  out  at  the  back  of 
the  stable  and  jump  into  a  light  road-cart  that  stood 
in  the  alley.  A  moment  later  and  they  were  whirling 
off  up-town. 

All  previous  doubt  vanished  instantly.  It  was 
agreed  on  all  sides  that  they  were  probably  acting 
on  private  information,  and  had  gone  to  bring  in 
the  prisoner.  So  strong  was  this  conviction  that  a 
number  of  young  men,  whose  teams  were  hitched 
about  the  square,  promptly  followed,  and  soon  an 
anxious  cavalcade  emptied  itself  into  the  dusty 
country  road. 

Just  beyond  the  corporation  line  the  North  Street, 
as  it  was  called,  forked.  Mr.  Brown  and  his  com- 
panion had  taken  the  road  which  bore  to  the  west 
and  led  straight  to  Barrow's  Saw  Mills.  Those  who 
were  first  to  reach  the  forks  could  still  see  the  road- 
cart  a  black  dot  in  the  distance. 
N  193 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

The  afternoon  passed,  and  the  dusk  of  evening 
came.  Those  of  the  townspeople  who  were  still 
hanging  about  the  square  went  home  to  supper. 
Unless  a  man  could  hire  or  borrow  a  horse  there  was 
not  much  temptation  to  start  off  on  a  wild-goose 
chase,  which,  after  all,  might  end  only  at  Barrow's 
Saw  Mills. 

Fortunately  for  him,  Dan  Oakley  had  gone  to 
Chicago  that  morning,  intending  to  see  Holloway 
and  resign.  In  view  of  what  had  happened  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  remain  in  Antioch,  nor  could 
General  Cornish  expect  him  to. 

Milton  McClintock  was  at  supper  with  his  family, 
when  Mrs.  Stapleton,  who  lived  next  door,  broke  in 
upon  them  without  ceremony,  crying,  excitedly: 

"  They've  got  him,  and  they're  going  to  lynch  him ! " 

Then  she  as  suddenly  disappeared.  McClintock, 
from  where  he  sat,  holding  a  piece  of  bread  within 
an  inch  of  his  lips,  and  his  mouth  wide  open  to  re- 
ceive it,  could  see  her  through  the  window,  her  gray 
hair  dishevelled  and  tossed  about  her  face,  running 
from  house  to  house,  a  gaunt  rumor  in  flapping 
calico  skirts. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  when  he  saw  her  vanish 
around  the  corner  of  Lou  Bentick's  house  across 
the  way.  "You  keep  the  children  in,  Mary,"  he 
said,  sharply.  "Don't  let  them  into  the  street." 
And,  snatching  up  his  hat  and  coat,  he  made  for  the 
door,  but  his  wife  was  there  ahead  of  him  and  threw 
her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"For  God's  sake,  Milt,  stay  with  the  boys  and 
194 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

me!"  she  ejaculated.  "You  don't  know  what  may 
happen!" 

Outside  they  heard  the  trampling  of  many  feet 
coming  nearer  and  nearer.  They  listened  breath- 
lessly. 

"You  don't  know  what  may  happen!"  she  re- 
peated. 

"Yes,  I  do,  and  they  mustn't  do  it!"  unclasping 
her  hands.  "Jim  will  be  needing  help."  The  sher- 
iff was  his  wife's  brother.  "He's  promised  me  he'd 
hang  the  old  man  himself,  or  no  one  else  should." 

There  was  silence  now  in  the  street.  The  crowd 
had  swept  past  the  house. 

"  But  the  town's  full  of  strangers.  You  can't  do 
anything,  and  Jim  can't!" 

"We  can  try.     Look  out  for  the  children!" 

And  he  was  gone. 

Mrs.  McClintock  turned  to  the  boys,  who  were 
still  at  the  table.  "Go  up-stairs  to  your  room  and 
stay  there  until  I  tell  you  to  come  down,"  she  com- 
manded, peremptorily.  "There,  don't  bother  me 
with  questions!"  For  Joe,  the  youngest  boy,  was 
already  whimpering.  The  other  two,  with  white, 
scared  faces,  sat  bolt  upright  in  their  chairs.  Some 
danger  threatened ;  they  didn't  know  what  this  dan- 
ger was,  and  their  very  ignorance  added  to  their 
terror. 

" Do  what  I  say!"  she  cried.  At  this  they  left  the 
table  and  marched  towards  the  stairs.  Joe  found 
courage  to  say : 

"Ain't  you  coming,  too?  George's  afraid."  But 
195 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

his  mother  did  not  hear  him.  She  was  at  the  window 
closing  the  shutters.  In  the  next  yard  she  saw  old 
Mrs.  Smith,  Mrs.  Stapleton's  mother,  carrying  her 
potted  plants  into  the  house  and  scolding  in  a  shrill, 
querulous  voice. 

McClintock,  pulling  on  his  coat  as  he  ran,  hurried 
up  the  street  past  the  little  white  frame  Methodist 
church.  The  crowd  had  the  start  of  him,  and  the 
town  seemed  deserted,  except  for  the  women  and 
children,  who  were  everywhere,  at  open  doors  and 
windows,  some  pallid  and  pitying,  some  ugly  with 
the  brutal  excitement  they  had  caught  from  brothers 
or  husbands. 

As  he  passed  the  Emorys',  he  heard  his  name 
called.  He  glanced  around,  and  saw  the  doctor  stand- 
ing on  the  porch  with  Mrs.  Emory  and  Constance. 

"  Will  you  go  with  me,  McClintock?"  the  physician 
cried.  At  the  same  moment  the  boy  drove  his  team 
to  the  door.  McClintock  took  the  fence  at  a  bound 
and  ran  up  the  drive. 

"There's  no  time  to  lose,"  he  panted.  "But," 
with  a  sudden,  sickening  sense  of  helplessness,  "I 
don't  know  that  we  can  stop  them." 

"At  least  he  will  not  be  alone." 

It  was  Constance  who  spoke.  She  was  thinking 
of  Oakley  as  struggling  single-handed  to  save  his 
father  from  the  howling,  cursing  rabble  which  had 
rushed  up  the  street  ten  minutes  before. 

"No,  he  won't  be  alone,"  said  McClintock,  not  un- 
derstanding whom  it  was  she  meant.  He  climbed 
in  beside  the  doctor. 

196 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"You  haven't  seen  him?"  the  latter  asked,  as  he 
took  the  reins  from  the  boy. 

"Seen  who?" 

"Dan  Oakley." 

"He's  on  his  way  to  Chicago.  Went  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  Thank  God  for  that!"  and  he  pulled  in  his  horses 
to  call  back  to  Constance  that  Oakley  had  left  An- 
tioch.  A  look  of  instant  relief  came  into  her  face. 
He  turned  again  to  McClintock. 

"This  is  a  bad  business." 

"Yes,  we  don't  want  no  lynching,  but  it's  lucky 
Oakley  isn't  here.  I  hadn't  thought  of  what  he'd  do 
if  he  was." 

"What  a  pity  he  ever  sent  for  his  father!  but  who 
could  have  foreseen  this?"  said  the  doctor,  sadly. 
McClintock  shook  his  head. 

"I  can't  believe  the  old  man  killed  Ryder  in  cold 
blood.  Why,  he's  as  gentle  as  a  lamb." 

As  they  left  the  town,  off  to  the  right  in  a  field 
they  saw  a  bareheaded  woman  racing  after  her  two 
runaway  sons,  and  then  the  distant  shouts  of  men, 
mingled  with  the  shrill  cries  of  boys,  reached  their 
ears.  The  doctor  shook  out  his  reins  and  plied  his 
whip. 

"  What  if  we  are  too  late!"  he  said. 

For  answer  McClintock  swore.  He  was  fearing 
that  himself. 

Two  minutes  later  and  they  were  up  with  the  rear 
of  the  mob,  where  it  straggled  along  on  foot,  sweat- 
ing and  dusty  and  hoarsely  articulate.  A  little 

197 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

farther  on  and  it  was  lost  to  sight  in  a  thicketed  dip 
of  the  road.  Out  of  this  black  shadow  buggy  after 
buggy  flashed  to  show  in  the  red  dusk  that  lay  on 
the  treeless  hill-side  beyond.  On  the  mob's  either 
flank,  but  keeping  well  out  of  the  reach  of  their 
elders,  slunk  and  skulked  the  village  urchins. 

"Looks  as  if  all  Antioch  was  here  to-night/' 
commented  McClintock,  grimly. 

"So  much  the  better  for  us;  surely  they  are  not 
all  gone  mad,"  answered  the  doctor. 

"I  wouldn't  give  a  button  for  his  chances." 

The  doctor  drove  recklessly  into  the  crowd,  which 
scattered  to  the  right  and  left. 

McClintock,  bending  low,  scanned  the  faces  which 
were  raised  towards  them. 

"The  whole  township's  here.  I  don't  know  one 
in  ten,"  he  said,  straightening  up. 

"  I  wish  I  could  manage  to  run  over  a  few,"  mut- 
tered the  doctor,  savagely. 

As  they  neared  the  forks  of  the  road  Dr.  Emory 
pulled  in  his  horses.  A  heavy  farm-wagon  blocked 
the  way,  and  the  driver  was  stolidly  indifferent  alike 
to  his  entreaties  and  to  McClintock's  threat  to  break 
his  head  for  him  if  he  didn't  move  on.  They  were 
still  shouting  at  him,  when  a  savage  cry  swelled  up 
from  the  throats  of  those  in  advance.  The  mur- 
derer was  being  brought  in  from  the  east  road. 

"The  brutes!"  muttered  the  doctor,  and  he  turned 
helplessly  to  McClintock.  "What  are  we  going  to 
do?  What  can  we  do?" 

By  way  of  answer  McClintock  stood  up. 
198 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"I  wish  I  could  .see  Jim." 

But  Jim  had  taken  the  west  road  three  hours  be- 
fore, and  was  driving  towards  Barrow's  Saw  Mills  as 
fast  as  McElroy's  best  team  could  take  him.  When 
he  reached  there  it  was  enough  to  make  one's  blood 
run  cold  to  hear  the  good  man  curse. 

"  You  wait  here,  doctor/'  cried  McClintock.  "  You 
can't  get  past,  and  they  seem  to  be  coming  this  way 
now." 

"Look  out  for  yourself,  Milt!" 

"Never  fear  for  me." 

He  jumped  down  into  the  dusty,  trampled  road, 
and  foot  by  foot  fought  his  way  forward. 

As  he  had  said,  those  in  front  were  turning  back. 
The  result  was  a  horrible  jam,  for  those  behind  were 
still  struggling  to  get  within  sight  of  the  murderer. 
A  drunken  man  at  McClintock's  elbow  was  shouting, 
"  Lynch  him!"  at  the  top  of  his  lungs. 

The  master-mechanic  wrenched  an  arm  free  and 
struck  at  him  with  the  flat  of  his  hand.  The  man 
appeared  surprised,  but  not  at  all  angry.  He  merely 
wiped  the  blood  from  his  lips  and  asked,  in  an  in- 
jured tone,  which  conveyed  a  mild  reproof,  "What 
did  you  want  to  do  that  for?  I  don't  know  you," 
and  as  he  sought  to  maintain  his  place  at  McClin- 
tock's side  he  kept  repeating,  "Say,  neighbor,  I 
don't  know  you.  You  certainly  got  the  advantage 
of  me." 

Soon  McClintock  was  in  the  very  thick  of  the  mob, 
and  then  he  saw  the  captive.  His  hands  were  bound 
and  he  was  tied  with  ropes  to  the  front  seat  of  a  buck- 

199 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

board  drawn  by  two  jaded  horses.  His  captors  were 
three  iron -jawed,  hard-faced  countrymen.  They 
were  armed  with  shot-guns,  and  were  enjoying  their 
splendid  triumph  to  the  full. 

McClintock  gave  only  one  look  at  the  prisoner. 
An  agony  of  fear  was  on  him.  The  collar  of  his 
shirt  was  stiff  with  blood  from  a  wounded  face.  His 
hat  was  gone,  and  his  coat  was  torn.  Scared  and 
wondering,  his  eyes  shifted  uneasily  over  the  crowd. 

But  the  one  look  sufficed  McClintock,  and  he  lost 
all  interest  in  the  scene. 

There  would  be  no  fynching  that  night,  for  the 
man  was  not  Roger  Oakley.  Further  than  that,  he 
was  gray-haired  and  burly;  he  was  as  unlike  the 
old  convict  as  one  man  could  well  be  unlike  another. 

Suddenly  the  cry  was  raised,  "  It  ain't  him.  You 
fellows  got  the  wrong  man!" 

The  cry  was  taken  up  and  bandied  back  down  the 
road.  The  mob  drew  a  great,  free  breath  of  rejoicing. 
It  became  good-natured  with  a  noisy  hilarity.  The 
iron-jawed  countrymen  glanced  around  sheepishly. 

"You  are  sure  about  that?"  one  inquired.  "He 
answers  the  description  all  right." 

It  was  hard  to  have  to  abandon  the  idea  of  the  re- 
wards. "  What  have  you  been  doing  to  him?"  asked 
half  a  dozen  voices  in  chorus  They  felt  a  friendly 
interest  in  the  poor  bound  wretch  in  the  buckboard  ; 
perhaps,  too,  they  were  grateful  to  him  because  he 
was  the  wrong  man. 

"Oh,  nothing  much,"  uneasily,  "onlj-  he  put  up 
a  hell  of  a  fight." 

200 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"  Of  course  he  did.  He  didn't  want  to  be  hanged  I" 
And  there  was  a  good-natured  roar  from  the  crowd. 
Already  those  nearest  the  prisoner  were  reaching  up 
to  throw  off  the  ropes  that  bound  him.  His  captors 
looked  on  in  stupid  surprise,  but  did  not  seek  to 
interfere. 

The  prisoner  himself,  now  that  he  saw  he  was 
surrounded  by  well-wishers,  and  being  in  a  some- 
what surly  temper,  which  was  pardonable  enough 
under  the  circumstances,  fell  to  complaining  bitterly 
and  loudly  of  the  treatment  he  had  received.  Pres- 
ently the  mob  began  to  disperse,  some  to  slink 
back  into  town,  rather  ashamed  of  their  fury,  while 
the  ever-lengthening  procession  which  had  followed 
the  four  men  in  the  buckboard  since  early  in  the  day 
faced  about  and  drove  off  into  the  night. 

An  hour  afterwards  and  the  prisoner  was  airing 
his  grievances  in  sagacious  Mr.  Britt's  saloon,  whith- 
er he  had  been  conveyed  by  the  latter  gentleman, 
who  had  been  quick  to  recognize  that,  temporarily, 
at  least,  he  possessed  great  drawing -powers.  He 
was  only  a  battered  vagabond  on  his  way  East 
from  the  harvests  in  the  Dakota  wheat -fields, 
and  he  knew  that  he  had  looked  into  the  very 
eyes  of  death.  As  he  limped  about  the  place, 
not  disdaining  to  drink  with  whoever  offered  to 
pay  for  his  refreshment,  he  nursed  a  bruised  and 
blackened  ear,  where  some  enthusiast  had  planted 
his  fist. 

"Just  suppose  they  hadn't  seen  I  was  the  wrong 
man!  Gosh  damn  'em!  they'd  a  strung  me  up  to 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

the  nearest  sapling.  I'd  like  to  meet  the  cuss  that 
punched  me  in  the  ear!"  The  crowd  smiled  toler- 
antly and  benevolently  upon  him. 

"How  did  they  come  to  get  you?"  asked  one  of 
his  auditors. 

"I  was  doing  a  flit  across  the  State  on  foot  looking 
for  work,  and  camping  in  the  woods  nights.  How 
the  bloody  blazes  was  I  to  know  you'd  had  a  murder 
in  your  jay  town?  They  jumped  on  me  while  I  was 
asleep,  that's  what  they  done.  Three  of  'em,  and 
when  I  says,  'What  the  hell  you  want  of  me?'  one  of 
'em  yells,  'We  know  you.  Surrender!'  and  jabs  the 
butt  of  his  gun  into  my  jaw,  and  over  I  go.  Then 
another  one  yells,  'He's  feeling  for  his  knife!'  and 
he  rushes  in  and  lets  drive  with  his  fist  and  fetches 
me  a  soaker  in  the  neck." 

About  the  same  hour  two  small  figures  brushed 
past  Chris  Berry  as  he  came  up  Main  Street,  and  he 
heard  a  familiar  voice  say :  "  My,  wasn't  it  a  close 
call,  Spide?  He  was  just  saved  by  the  skin  of  his 
teeth!" 

A  hand  was  extended,  and  the  speaker  felt  himself 
seized  by  the  ear,  and,  glancing  up,  looked  into  his 
father's  face. 

"You  come  along  home  with  me,  son,"  said  the 
undertaker.  "Your  ma  '11  have  a  word  to  say  to 
you.  She's  been  wanting  to  lay  her  hands  on  you 
all  day." 

"  See  you  later,  Spide,"  Clarence  managed  to  gasp, 
and  then  he  moved  off  with  a  certain  jaunty  buoy- 
ancy, as  though  he  trod  on  air. 

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CHAPTER  XXI 

WHEN  Roger  Oakley  fled  from  Antioch  on  the 
night  of  the  murder  he  was  resolved  that,  hap- 
pen what  might,  he  would  not  be  taken. 

For  half  an  hour  he  traversed  back  alleys  and 
grass-grown  "side  streets/'  seeing  no  one  and  un- 
seen, and  presently  found  himself  to  the  north  of 
the  town. 

Then  he  sat  down  to  rest  and  consider  the  situa- 
tion. 

He  was  on  the  smooth,  round  top  of  a  hill-side.  At 
his  back  were  woods  and  fields,  while  down  in  the 
hollow  below  him,  bej^ond  a  middle  space  that  was 
neither  town  nor  country,  he  saw  the  lights  of  An- 
tioch twinkling  among  the  trees.  Dannie  was  there 
somewhere,  wondering  why  he  did  not  return.  Nearer 
at  hand,  across  a  narrow  lane,  where  the  rag- weed 
and  jimson  and  pokeberry  flourished  rankly,  was  the 
cemetery. 

In  the  first  peaceful  month  of  his  stay  in  Antioch 
he  had  walked  out  there  almost  every  Sunday  after- 
noon to  smoke  his  pipe  and  meditate.  He  had  liked 
to  hear  the  blackbirds  calling  overhead  in  the  dark 
pines,  and  he  had  a  more  than  passing  fondness  for 
tombstone  literature.  Next  to  the  Bible  it  seemed 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

about  the  soundest  kind  of  reading.  He  would  seat 
himself  beside  a  grave  whose  tenant  had  been  sin- 
gularly pre-eminent  as  possessing  all  the  virtues, 
and,  in  friendly  fellowship  with  the  dead,  watch  the 
shadows  marshalled  by  the  distant  woodlands  grow 
from  short  to  long,  or  listen  to  the  noisy  cawing  of 
the  crows  off  in  the  cornfields. 

The  night  was  profoundly  still,  until  suddenly 
the  town  bell  rang  the  alarm.  The  old  convict's 
face  blanched  at  the  sound,  and  he  came  slowly  to 
his  feet.  The  bell  rang  on.  The  lights  among  the 
trees  grew  in  number,  dogs  barked,  there  was  the 
murmur  of  voices.  He  clapped  his  hands  to  his  ears 
and  plunged  into  the  woods. 

He  had  no  clear  idea  of  where  he  was  going,  but 
all  night  long  he  plodded  steadily  forward,  his  one 
thought  to  be  as  far  from  Antioch  as  possible  by 
morning.  When  at  last  morning  came,  with  its 
song  of  half-awakened  birds  and  its  level  streaks  of 
light  piercing  the  gray  dawn,  he  remembered  that 
he  was  hungry,  and  that  he  had  eaten  nothing  since 
noon  the  day  before.  He  stopped  at  the  first  farm- 
house he  came  to  for  breakfast,  and  at  his  request  the 
farmer's  wife  put  up  a  lunch  for  him  to  carry  away. 

It  was  night  again  when  he  reached  Barrow's  Saw 
Mills.  He  ventured  boldly  into  the  one  general  store 
and  made  a  number  of  purchases.  The  storekeeper 
was  frankly  curious  to  learn  what  he  was  doing  and 
where  he  was  going,  but  the  old  convict  met  his  ques- 
tions with  surly  reserve. 

When  he  left  the  store  he  took  the  one  road  out  of 
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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

the  place,  and  half  a  mile  farther  on  forsook  the  road 
for  the  woods. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  he  went  into  camp. 
He  built  a  fire  and  toasted  some  thin  strips  of  bacon. 
He  made  his  supper  of  these  and  a  few  crackers.  He 
realized  that  he  must  harbor  his  slender  stock  of  pro- 
visions. 

He  had  told  himself  over  and  over  that  he  was  not 
fit  to  live  among  men.  He  would  have  to  dwell  alone 
like  a  dangerous  animal,  shunning  his  fellows.  The 
solitude  and  the  loneliness  suited  him.  He  would 
make  a  permanent  camp  somewhere  close  to  the 
lakes,  in  the  wildest  spot  he  could  find,  and  end  his 
days  there. 

He  carried  in  his  pocket  a  small  railroad  map  of 
the  State,  and  in  the  morning,  after  a  careful  study 
of  it,  marked  out  his  course.  That  day,  and  for  sev- 
eral days  following,  he  plodded  on  and  on  in  a  tire- 
less, patient  fashion,  and  with  but  the  briefest  stops 
at  noon  for  his  meagre  lunch.  Each  morning  he 
was  up  and  on  his  way  with  the  first  glimmer  of  light, 
and  he  kept  his  even  pace  until  the  glow  faded  from 
the  sky  in  the  west. 

Beyond  Barrow's  Saw  Mills  the  pine  -  woods 
stretched  away  to  the  north  in  one  unbroken  wilder- 
ness. At  long  intervals  he  passed  loggers'  camps, 
and  more  rarely  a  farm  in  the  forest ;  but  he  avoided 
these.  Instinct  told  him  that  the  news  of  Ryder's 
murder  had  travelled  far  and  wide.  In  all  that  range 
of  country  there  was  no  inhabited  spot  where  he  dare 
show  his  face. 

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The  Manager   of  the  B.  &  A. 

Now  that  he  had  evolved  a  definite  purpose  he  was 
quite  cheerful  and  happy,  save  for  occasional  spells 
of  depression  and  bitter  self-accusation,  but  the  ex- 
citement of  his  flight  buoyed  him  up  amazingly. 

He  had  distanced  and  outwitted  pursuit,  and  his 
old  pride  in  his  physical  strength  and  superiority 
returned.  The  woods  never  ceased  to  interest  him. 
There  was  a  mighty  freedom  about  them,  a  freedom 
he  shared  and  joyed  in.  He  felt  he  could  tramp  on 
forever,  with  the  scent  of  the  pines  filling  his  nostrils 
and  the  sweep  of  the  wind  in  his  ears.  His  muscles 
seemed  of  iron.  There  was  cunning  and  craft,  too, 
in  the  life  he  was  living. 

The  days  were  sultry  August  days.  No  rain  had 
fallen  in  weeks,  and  the  earth  was  a  dead,  dry  brown. 
A  hot  haze  quivered  under  the  great  trees.  Off  in 
the  north,  against  which  his  face  was  set,  a  long,  low, 
black  cloud  lay  on  the  horizon.  Sometimes  the 
wind  lifted  it  higher,  and  it  sifted  down  dark  threads 
of  color  against  the  softer  blue  of  the  summer  sky. 
Presently  the  wind  brought  the  odor  of  smoke.  At 
first  it  was  almost  imperceptible — a  suggestion  mere- 
ly, but  by-and-by  it  was  in  every  breath  he  drew. 
The  forest  was  on  fire  ahead  of  him.  He  judged 
that  the  tide  of  devastation  was  rolling  nearer,  and 
he  veered  to  the  west.  Then  one  evening  he  saw 
what  he  had  not  seen  before — a  dull  red  light  that 
shone  sullenly  above  the  pines.  The  next  day  the 
smoke  was  thick  in  the  woods;  the  wind,  blowing 
strongly  from  the  north,  floated  little  wisps  and 
wreaths  of  it  down  upon  him.  It  rested  like  a  heavy 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

mist  above  the  cool  surface  of  the  lake,  on  the  shores 
of  which  he  had  made  his  camp  the  night  previous, 
while  some  thickly  grown  depressions  he  crossed 
were  sour  with  the  stale,  rancid  odor  that  clung  to 
his  clothes  and  rendered  breathing  difficult.  There 
was  a  powdering  of  fine  wrhite  ashes  everywhere. 
At  first  it  resembled  a  hoar-frost,  and  then  a  scanty 
fall  of  snow. 

By  five  o'clock  he  gained  the  summit  of  a  low  ridge. 
From  its  top  he  was  able  to  secure  an  extended  view 
of  the  fire.  A  red  line — as  red  as  the  reddest  sunset 
— stretched  away  to  the  north  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
see.  He  was  profoundly  impressed  by  the  spectacle. 
The  conflagration  was  on  a  scale  so  gigantic  that 
it  fairly  staggered  him.  He  knew  millions  of  feet  of 
timber  must  be  blazing. 

He  decided  to  remain  on  the  ridge  and  stud}T  the 
course  of  the  fire,  so  he  lay  down  to  rest.  Sleep  came 
over  him,  for  the  day  had  been  a  fatiguing  one,  but 
at  midnight  he  awoke.  A  dull,  roaring  sound  was 
surging  through  the  forest,  and  the  air  was  stifling. 
The  fire  had  burned  closer  while  he  slept.  It  had 
reached  the  ridge  opposite,  which  was  nearly  parallel 
to  the  one  he  was  on,  and  was  burning  along  its 
aorthern  base.  The  ridge  flattened  perceptibly  to 
the  west,  and  already  at  this  point  a  single  lone  line 
of  fire  had  surmounted  the  blunt  crest,  and  was 
creeping  down  into  the  valley  which  intervened. 
Presently  tongues  of  fire  shot  upwards.  The  dark, 
nearer  side  of  the  ridge  showed  clearly  in  the  fierce 
light,  and  soon  the  fire  rolled  over  its  entire  length, 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

a  long,  ruddy  cataract  of  flame.  As  it  gained  the 
summit  it  seemed  to  fall  forward  and  catch  fresh 
timber,  then  it  raced  down  the  slope  towards  the  val- 
ley, forming  a  great  red  avalanche  that  roared  and 
hissed  and  crackled  and  sent  up  vast  clouds  of  smoke 
into  the  night. 

Clearly  any  attempt  to  go  farther  north  would  be 
but  a  waste  of  time  and  strength.  The  fire  shut  him 
off  completely  in  that  quarter.  He  must  retrace  his 
steps  until  he  was  well  to  the  south  again.  Then  he 
could  go  either  to  the  east  or  west,  and  perhaps  work 
around  into  the  burned  district.  The  risk  he  ran  of 
capture  did  not  worry  him.  Indeed,  he  scarcely  con- 
sidered it.  He  felt  certain  the  pursuit,  if  pursuit 
there  were,  had  been  abandoned  days  before.  He 
had  a  shrewd  idea  that  the  fire  would  give  people 
something  else  to  think  of.  His  only  fear  was  that 
his  provisions  would  be  exhausted.  When  they 
went  he  knew  the  chances  were  that  he  would  starve, 
but  he  put  this  fear  resolutely  aside  whenever  it  ob- 
truded itself.  With  care  his  supplies  could  be  made 
to  last  many  days. 

He  did  not  sleep  any  more  that  night,  but  watched 
the  fire  eat  its  way  across  the  valley.  When  it  reached 
the  slope  at  his  feet  he  shouldered  his  pack  and  start- 
ed south.  It  was  noon  when  he  made  his  first  halt. 
He  rested  for  two  hours  and  then  resumed  his  march. 
He  was  now  well  beyond  the  immediate  range  of  the 
conflagration.  There  was  only  an  occasional  faint 
odor  of  smoke  in  the  woods.  He  had  crossed  several 
small  streams,  and  he  knew  they  would  be  an  ob- 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

stacle  in  the  path  of  the  fire  unless  the  wind,  which 
was  from  the  north,  should  freshen. 

Night  fell.  He  lighted  a  camp-fire  and  scraped 
together  his  bed  of  pine-needles,  and  lay  down  to 
sleep  with  the  comforting  thought  that  he  had  put  a 
sufficient  distance  between  himself  and  the  burning 
forest.  He  would  turn  to  the  west  when  morning 
came.  He  trusted  to  a  long  day's  journey  to  cany 
him  out  of  the  menaced  territory.  It  would  be  easier 
travelling,  too,  for  the  ridges  which  cut  the  face  of 
the  country  ran  east  and  west.  The  sun  was  in  the 
boughs  of  the  hemlocks  when  he  awoke.  There  had 
been  a  light  rain  during  the  night,  and  the  forest 
world  had  taken  on  new  beauty.  But  it  grew  hot 
and  oppressive  as  the  hours  passed.  The  smoke 
thickened  once  more.  At  first  he  tried  to  believe 
it  was  only  his  fancy.  Then  the  wind  shifted  into 
the  east,  and  the  woods  became  noticeably  clearer. 
He  pushed  ahead  with  renewed  hope.  This  change 
in  the  wind  was  a  good  sign.  If  it  ever  got  into  the 
south  it  would  drive  the  fire  back  on  itself. 

He  tramped  for  half  the  night  and  threw  himself 
down  and  slept  heavily — the  sleep  of  utter  exhaus- 
tion and  weariness.  It  was  broad  day  when  he 
opened  his  eyes.  The  first  sound  he  heard  was  the 
dull  roar  of  the  flames.  He  turned  with  a  hunted, 
fugitive  look  towards  the  west.  A  bright  light  shone 
through  the  trees.  The  fire  was  creeping  around 
and  already  encircled  him  on  two  sides.  His  feeling 
was  one  of  bitter  disappointment,  fear,  too,  mingled 
with  it.  In  the  south  were  Ryder's  friends — Dan- 
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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

nie's  enemies  and  his.  Of  the  east  he  had  a  horror 
which  the  study  of  his  map  did  not  tend  to  allay  ; 
there  were  towns  there,  and  settlements,  thickly 
scattered.  Finally  he  concluded  he  would  go  for- 
ward and  examine  the  line  of  fire.  There  might  be 
some  means  by  which  he  could  make  his  way 
through  it. 

A  journey  of  twx>  miles  brought  him  to  a  small 
watercourse.  The  fire  was  burning  along  the  op- 
posite bank.  It  blazed  among  the  scrub  and  under- 
brush and  leaped  from  tree  to  tree;  first  to  shrivel 
their  foliage  to  a  dead,  dry  brown,  and  then  envelop 
them  in  sheets  of  flame.  The  crackling  was  like  the 
report  of  musketry. 

Roger  Oakley  was  awed  by  the  sight.  In  spite  of 
the  smoke  and  heat  he  sat  down  on  the  trunk  of  a 
fallen  p{ne  to  rest.  Some  birds  fluttered  out  of  the 
rolling  masses  of  smoke  above  his  head  and  flew 
south  with  shrill  cries  of  alarm.  A  deer  crossed  the 
stream,  not  two  hundred  yards  from  where  he  sat,  at 
a  single  bound.  Next,  two  large  timber  wolves  en- 
tered the  water.  They  landed  within  a  stone's  throw 
of  him,  and  trotted  leisurely  off.  The  heat  soon  drove 
him  from  his  position,  and  he,  too,  sought  refuge  in 
the  south.  The  wall  of  flame  cut  him  off  from  the 
north  and  west,  and  to  the  east  he  would  not  go. 

There  was  something  tragic  in  this  blocking  of  his 
way.  He  wondered  if  it  was  not  the  Lord's  wish, 
after  all,  that  he  should  be  taken.  This  thought 
had  been  troubling  him  for  some  time.  Then  he  re- 
membered Dannie.  Dannie,  to  whom  he  had  brought 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

only  shame  and  sorrow.  He  set  his  lips  with  grim 
determination.  Right  or  wrong,  the  Lord's  ven- 
geance would  have  to  wait.  Perhaps  He  would  un- 
derstand the  situation.  He  prayed  that  He  might. 

Twenty-four  hours  later  and  he  had  turned  west- 
ward, with  the  desperate  hope  that  he  could  cross  out 
of  the  path  of  the  fire,  but  the  hope  proved  futile. 
There  was  no  help  for  it.  To  the  east  he  must  go  if 
he  would  escape. 

It  was  the  towns  and  settlements  he  feared  most, 
and  the  people;  perhaps  they  still  continued  the 
search.  When  he  left  the  wilderness  the  one  precau- 
tion he  could  take  would  be  to  travel  only  by  night. 
This  plan,  when  it  was  firmly  fixed  in  his  mind,  great- 
ly encouraged  him.  But  at  the  end  of  ten  hours  of 
steady  tramping  he  discovered  that  the  fire  surround- 
ed him  on  three  sides.  Still  he  did  not  despair.  For 
two  days  he  dodged  from  east  to  west,  and  each  day 
the  wall  of  flame  and  smoke  drew  closer  about  him, 
and  the  distances  in  which  he  moved  became  less  and 
less.  And  now  a  great  fear  of  Antioch  possessed 
him.  The  railroad  ran  nearly  due  east  and  west 
from  Buckhorn  Junction  to  Harrison,  a  distance  of 
ninety-five  miles.  Beyond  the  road  the  country  was 
well  settled.  There  were  thriving  farms  and  villages. 
To  pass  through  such  a  country  without  being  seen 
was  next  to  impossible.  He  felt  a  measure  of  his 
strength  fail  him,  and  with  it  went  his  courage.  It 
was  only  the  thought  of  Dannie  that  kept  him  on  the 
alert.  Happen  what  might,  he  would  not  be  taken. 
It  should  go  hard  with  the  man  or  men  who  made  the 

211 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

attempt.  He  told  himself  this,  not  boastfully,  but  with 
quiet  conviction.  In  so  far  as  he  could,  as  the  fire 
crowded  him  back,  he  avoided  the  vicinity  of  Antioch 
and  inclined  towards  Buckhorn  Junction. 

There  was  need  of  constant  vigilance  now,  as  he 
was  in  a  sparsely  settled  section.  One  night  some 
men  passed  quite  near  to  the  fringe  of  tamarack 
swamp  where  he  was  camped.  Luckily  the  under- 
growth was  dense,  and  his  fire  had  burned  to  a  few 
red  embers.  On  another  occasion,  just  at  dusk,  he 
stumbled  into  a  small  clearing,  and  within  plain  view 
of  the  windows  of  a  log-cabin.  As  he  leaped  back 
into  the  woods  a  man  with  a  cob-pipe  in  his  mouth 
came  to  the  door  of  the  cabin. 

Roger  Oakley,  with  the  hickory  staff  which  he  had 
cut  that  day  held  firmly  in  his  hands,  and  a  fierce, 
wild  look  on  his  face,  watched  him  from  his  cover. 
Presently  the  man  turned  back  into  the  house, 
closing  the  door  after  him. 

These  experiences  startled  and  alarmed  him.  He 
grew  gaunt  and  haggard;  a  terrible  weariness  op- 
pressed him;  his  mind  became  confused,  and  a  sort 
of  panic  seized  him.  His  provisions  had  failed  him, 
but  an  occasional  cultivated  field  furnished  corn  and 
potatoes,  in  spite  of  the  serious  misgivings  he  felt 
concerning  the  moral  aspect  of  these  nightly  depre- 
dations. When  he  raided  a  spring-house,  and  car- 
ried off  eggs  and  butter  and  milk,  he  was  able  to 
leave  money  behind.  He  conducted  these  trans- 
actions with  scrupulous  honesty. 

He  had  been  living  in  the  wilderness  three  weeks, 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

when  at  last  the  fire  drove  him  from  cover  at  Buck- 
horn  Junction.  As  a  town  the  Junction  was  largely 
a  fiction.  There  was  a  railroad  crossing,  a  freight- 
shed,  and  the  depot,  and  perhaps  a  score  of  houses 
scattered  along  a  sandy  stretch  of  country  road. 

The  B.  &  A.  had  its  connection  with  the  M.  & 
W.  at  this  point.  It  was  also  the  beginning  of  a  rich 
agricultural  district,  and  the  woods  gave  place  to 
cultivated  fields  and  farm-lands. 

It  was  late  afternoon  as  Roger  Oakley  approached 
Buckhorn.  When  it  was  dark  he  would  cross  the 
railroad  and  take  his  chance  there.  He  judged  from 
the  light  in  the  sky  that  the  fire  had  already  burned 
in  between  Buckhorn  and  Antioch.  This  gave  him 
a  certain  sense  of  security.  Indeed,  the  fire  sur- 
rounded Buckhorn  in  every  quarter  except  the  south. 
Where  there  was  no  timber  or  brush  it  crept  along  the 
rail-fences,  or  ran  with  tiny  spurts  of  flame  through 
the  dry  weeds  and  dead  stubble  which  covered  much 
of  the  cleared  land. 

He  could  see  a  number  of  people  moving  about,  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  west  of  the  depot.  They  were  tear- 
ing down  a  burning  fence  that  was  in  perilous  prox- 
imity to  some  straw-stacks  and  a  barn. 

He  heard  and  saw  the  6.50  on  the  M.  &  W.  pull 
in.  This  was  the  Chicago  express ;  and  the  Huckle- 
berry's local,  which  was  due  at  Antioch  at  midnight, 
connected  with  it.  This  connection  involved  a  wait 
of  three  hours  at  Buckhorn.  Only  one  passenger 
left  the  train.  He  disappeared  into  the  depot. 

Roger  Oakley  waited  until  it  was  quite  dark,  and 
213 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

then,  leaving  the  strip  of  woods  just  back  of  the  depot, 
where  he  had  been  hiding,  stole  cautiously  down  to 
the  track.  He  had  noticed  that  there  was  an  engine 
and  some  freight  cars  on  one  of  the  sidings.  He 
moved  among  them,  keeping  well  in  the  shadow. 
Suddenly  he  paused.  Two  men  emerged  from  the 
depot.  They  came  down  the  platform  in  the  direction 
of  the  cars.  They  were  talking  earnestly  together. 
One  swung  himself  up  into  the  engine  and  lighted  a 
torch. 

He  wondered  what  they  were  doing,  and  stole 
nearer.  ,, 

They  were  standing  on  the  platform  now,  and  the 
man  who  held  the  torch  had  his  back  to  him.  His 
companion  was  saying  something  about  the  wires 
being  down. 

He  listened  intently. 

Antioch  was  in  danger,  and  if  Antioch  was  in  dan- 
ger— Dannie — 

All  at  once  the  man  with  the  torch  turned  and  its 
light  suffused  his  face. 

It  was  Dan  Oakley. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

DAN  OAKLEY  went  to  Chicago,  intending  to  see 
Holloway  and  resign,  but  he  found  that  the 
Huckleberry's  vice-president  was  in  New  York  on 
business,  and  no  one  in  his  office  seemed  to  know  when 
he  would  return,  so  he  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter, 
telling  him  of  the  condition  of  affairs  at  Antioch, 
and  explaining  the  utter  futility,  in  view  of  what 
had  happened,  of  his  trying  to  cope  with  the  situa- 
tion. 

He  waited  five  days  for  a  reply,  and,  none  coming, 
wired  to  learn  if  his  letter  had  been  received.  This 
produced  results.  Holloway  wired  back  that  he  had 
the  letter  under  consideration,  and  requested  Oakley 
to  remain  in  Chicago  until  he  returned,  but  he  did 
not  say  whether  or  not  his  resignation  would  be  ac- 
cepted. Since  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but 
await  Hollo  way's  pleasure  in  the  matter,  Dan  em- 
ployed his  enforced  leisure  in  looking  about  for  an- 
other position.  He  desired  a  connection  which 
would  take  him  out  of  the  country,  for  the  farther 
away  from  Antioch  and  Constance  Emorj7  he  could 
get  the  better  he  would  be  satisfied.  He  fancied  he 
would  like  to  go  to  South  America.  He  was  willing 
to  accept  almost  any  kind  of  a  post — salary  was  no 

215 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

longer  a  consideration  with  him.     What  he  required 
was  a  radical  change,  with  plenty  of  hard  work. 

It  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  his  judgment  of 
the  case  was  an  extreme  one,  or  that  he  told  himself 
he  must  make  a  fresh  start,  as  his  record  was  very 
much  against  him  and  his  ability  at  a  discount. 
While  he  could  not  fairly  be  held  responsible  for  the 
miscarriage  of  his  plans  at  Antioch,  he  felt  their  fail- 
ure keenly,  so  keenly  that  could  he  have  seen  the 
glimmer  of  a  hope  ahead  he  could  have  gone  back 
and  taken  up  the  struggle,  but  the  killing  of  Ryder 
by  his  father  made  this  impossible.  There  was  noth- 
ing he  could  do,  and  his  mere  presence  outraged 
the  whole  town.  No  understanding  would  ever  be 
reached  with  the  hands  if  he  continued  in  control, 
while  a  new  man  in  his  place  would  probably  have 
little  or  no  difficulty  in  coming  to  an  agreement  with 
them.  No  doubt  they  were  quite  as  sick  as  he  had 
been  of  the  fight,  and  if  he  left  they  would  be  content 
to  count  his  going  a  victory,  and  waive  the  question 
of  wages.  It  was  part  of  the  irony  of  the  condition 
that  the  new  man  would  find  enough  work  contracted 
for  to  keep  the  shop  open  and  running  full  time  for 
the  next  eight  or  ten  months.  But  his  successor  was 
welcome  to  the  glory  of  it  when  he  had  hidden  him- 
self in  some  God-forsaken  corner  of  the  globe  along 
with  the  other  waifs  and  strays — the  men  who  have 
left  home  because  of  their  health  or  their  accounts, 
and  who  hang  around  dingy  seaport  towns  and  read 
month -old  newspapers  and  try  to  believe  that  the 
game  has  been  worth  the  candle. 

216 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

By  far  his  greatest  anxiety  was  his  father.  He 
watched  the  papers  closely,  expecting  each  day  to 
read  that  he  had  been  captured  and  sent  back  to  An- 
tioch,  but  the  days  slipped  past,  and  there  was  no 
mention  of  him.  Holt,  with  whom  he  was  in  con- 
stant correspondence,  reported  that  interest  in  his 
capture  had  considerably  abated,  while  the  organ- 
ized pursuit  had  entirely  ceased. 

Dan  had  the  feeling  that  he  should  never  see  him 
again,  and  the  pathos  of  his  age  and  dependence  tore 
his  heart.  In  a  manner,  too,  he  blamed  himself  for 
the  tragedy.  It  might  have  been  averted  had  he 
said  less  about  Ryder  in  his  father's  hearing.  He 
should  have  known  better  than  to  discuss  the  strike 
with  him. 

One  morning,  as  he  left  Holloway's  office,  he 
chanced  to  meet  an  acquaintance  by  the  name  of 
Curtice.  They  had  been  together  in  Denver  years 
before,  and  he  had  known  him  as  a  rather  talkative 
young  fellow,  with  large  hopes  and  a  thrifty  eye  to 
the  main  chance.  But  he  was  the  one  man  he  would 
have  preferred  to  meet,  for  he  had  been  in  South 
America  and  knew  the  field  there.  Apparently 
Curtice  was  equally  glad  to  see  him.  He  insisted 
upon  carrying  him  off  to  his  club  to  lunch,  where  it 
developed  he  was  in  a  state  of  happy  enthusiasm 
over  his  connection  with  a  road  that  had  just  gone 
into  the  hands  of  a  receiver,  and  a  new  baby,  which 
he  assured  Oakley  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  he  was 
going  to  name  after  him. 

"You  see,  Oakley,"  he  explained,  as  they  settled 
217 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

themselves,  "I  was  married  after  you  left  to  a  girl 
who  had  come  to  Denver  with  a  consumptive  brother. 
They  boarded  at  the  same  place  I  did."  His  com- 
panion was  properly  interested.  "Look  here,  how 
long  are  you  going  to  be  in  the  city?  I  want  3-011  to 
come  and  see  us." 

Dan  avoided^committing  himself  by  saying  his 
stay  in  Chicago  was  most  uncertain.  He  might 
have  to  leave  very  soon. 

"  Well,  then,  you  must  drop  in  at  my  office.  I  wish 
you'd  make  it  your  headquarters  while  you  are  here." 

"What  about  the  road  you  are  with?" 

" Oh,  the  road !     WTe  are  putting  it  in  shape." 

Oakley  smiled  a  trifle  skeptically.  He  recalled 
that  even  as  a  very  young  man  filling  a  very  sub- 
ordinate position,  Curtice  had  clung  to  the  "we." 
Curtice  saw  the  smile  and  remembered  too. 

"Now,  see  here,  I'm  giving  it  to  you  straight.  I 
really  am  the  whole  thing.  I've  got  a  greenhorn  for 
a  boss,  whose  ignorance  of  the  business  is  only 
equalled  by  his  confidence  in  me.  If  you  want  to  be 
nasty  you  can  say  his  ignorance  is  responsible  for 
much  of  his  confidence.  I've  been  told  that  be- 
fore." 

"Then  I'll  wait.  I  may  be  able  to  think  of  some- 
thing better." 

"  There  are  times  when  I  wonder  if  he  really  knows 
the  difference  between  an  engine's  head-light  and  a 
coupling-pin.  He's  giving  me  all  the  rope  I  want, 
and  we'll  have  a  great  passenger  service  when  I  get 
done.  That's  what  I  am  working  on  now." 

218 


The  Manager  of  the  B.   &  A. 

"But  where  are  you  going  to  get  the  funds  for  it? 
A  good  service  costs  money/'  said  Dan. 

"Oh,  the  road's  always  made  money.  That  was 
the  trouble."  Oakley  looked  dense.  He  had  heard 
of  such  things,  but  they  had  been  outside  of  his  own 
experience. 

"The  directors  were  a  superstitious  lot;  they 
didn't  believe  in  paying  dividends,  and  as  they  had 
to  get  rid  of  the  money  somehow,  they  put  it  all  out 
in  salaries.  The  president's  idea  of  the  value  of 
his  own  services  would  have  been  exorbitant  if  the 
road  had  been  operating  five  thousand  miles  of 
track  instead  of  five  hundred.  I  am  told  a  direc- 
tors' meeting  looked  like  a  family  reunion,  and 
they  had  a  most  ungodly  lot  of  nephews — nephews 
were  everywhere.  The  purchasing  agent  was  a 
nephew,  so  were  two  of  the  division  superinten- 
dents. Why,  the  president  even  had  a  third  cousin 
of  his  wife's  braking  on  a  way  freight.  We've 
kept  him  as  a  sort  of  curiosity,  and  because  he 
was  the  only  one  in  the  bunch  who  was  earning 
his  pay." 

"No  wonder  the  stockholders  went  to  law,"  said 
Oakley,  laughing. 

"Of  course,  when  the  road  was  taken  into  court 
its  affairs  were  seen  to  be  in  such  rotten  shape  that  a 
receiver  was  appointed." 

Oakley's  business  instinct  asserted  itself.  He 
had  forgotten  for  the  time  being  that  his  services  still 
belonged  to  Cornish.  Now  he  said :  "  See  here, 
haven't  you  cars  you  intend  to  rebuild?" 

219 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"We've  precious  few  that  don't  need  carpenter- 
work  or  paint  or  upholstering." 

"Then  send  them  to  me  at  Antioch.  I'll  make 
you  a  price  you  can't  get  inside  of,  I  don't  care  where 
you  go." 

Curtice  meditated,  then  he  asked:  "How  are 
you  fixed  to  handle  a  big  contract?  It  '11  be 
mostly  for  paint  and  upholstery  or  woodwork.  We 
have  been  considering  equipping  works  of  our 
own,  but  I  am  afraid  they  are  not  going  to  mate- 
rialize." 

"We  can  handle  anything,"  and  from  sheer  force 
of  habit  he  was  all  enthusiasm.  He  had  pleasant 
visions  of  the  shops  running  over-time,  and  every- 
body satisfied  and  happy.  It  made  no  difference  to 
him  that  he  would  not  be  there  to  share  in  the  gen- 
eral prosperity.  With  the  start  he  had  given  it,  the 
future  of  the  Huckleberry  would  be  assured.  He 
decided  he  had  better  say  nothing  to  Curtice  about 
South  America. 

The  upshot  of  this  meeting  was  that  he  stuck  to 
Curtice  with  a  genial  devotion  that  made  him  wax 
in  his  hands.  They  spent  two  days  together,  in- 
specting paintless  and  tattered  day  coaches,  and  on 
the  third  day  Dan  strolled  from  his  friend's  office 
buttoning  his  coat  on  a  contract  that  would  mean 
many  thousands  of  dollars  for  Antioch.  It  was  al- 
together his  most  brilliant  achievement.  He  felt 
that  there  only  remained  for  him  to  turn  the  Huckle- 
berry over  to  Holloway  and  leave  the  country. 
He  had  done  well  by  it. 

220 


The   Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

Dan  had  been  in  Chicago  about  three  weeks,  when 
at  last  Holloway  returned,  and  he  proved  as  limp  as 
Cornish  had  said  he  would  be  in  a  crisis.  He  was 
inclined  to  be  critical,  too,  and  seemed  astonished 
that  Oakley  had  been  waiting  in  Chicago  to  see  him. 
He  experienced  a  convenient  lapse  of  memory  when 
the  latter  mentioned  his  telegram. 

"I  can't  accept  your  resignation,"  he  said,  fuss- 
ing nervously  among  the  papers  on  his  desk.  "I 
didn't  put  you  at  Antioch;  that  was  General  Cor- 
nish's own  idea,  and  I  don't  know  what  he'll  think." 

"  It  has  gotten  past  the  point  where  I  care  what 
he  thinks,"  retorted  Dan,  curtly.  "You  must  send 
some  one  else  there  to  take  hold." 

"Why  didn't  you  cable  him  instead  of  writing 
me?"  fretfully.  "I  don't  know  what  he  will  want, 
only  it's  pretty  certain  to  be  the  very  thing  I  sha'n't 
think  of." 

"I  would  have  cabled  him  if  I  had  considered  it 
necessary,  but  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  my  res- 
ignation would  not  be  agreed  to  on  the  spot,  as  my 
presence  in  Antioch  only  widens  the  breach  and  in- 
creases the  difficulty  of  a  settlement  with  the  men." 

"Whom  did  you  leave  in  charge?"  inquired  Hollo- 
way. 

"Holt." 

"Who's  he?" 

"  He's  Kerr's  assistant,"  Dan  explained. 

"Why  didn't  you  leave  Kerr  in  charge?"  demand- 
ed the  vice-president. 

"I  laid  him  off,"  said  Dan,  in  a  tone  of  exaspera- 
221 


The   Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

tion,  and  then  he  added,  to  forestall  more  questions : 
"  He  was  in  sympathy  with  the  men,  and  he  hadn't 
the  sense  to  keep  it  to  himself.  I  couldn't  be  both- 
ered with  him,  so  I  got  rid  of  him." 

"  Well,  I  must  say  you  have  made  a  frightful  mess 
of  the  whole  business,  Oakley,  but  I  told  General 
Cornish  from  the  first  that  you  hadn't  the  training 
for  the  position." 

Dan  turned  very  red  in  the  face  at  this,  but  he  let  it 
pass. 

"It's  too  bad,"  murmured  Holloway,  still  finger- 
ing the  letters  on  the  desk. 

"Since  you  are  in  doubt,  why  don't  you  cable 
General  Cornish  for  instructions,  or,  if  there  is  a 
reason  why  you  don't  care  to,  it  is  not  too  late  for 
me  to  cable,"  said  Dan. 

This  proposal  did  not  please  Holloway  at  all,  but 
he  was  unwilling  to  admit  that  he  feared  Cornish's 
displeasure,  which,  \vhere  he  was  concerned,  usually 
took  the  form  of  present  silence  and  a  subsequent 
sarcasm  that  dealt  with  the  faulty  quality  of  his 
judgment.  The  sarcasm  might  come  six  months 
after  it  had  been  inspired,  but  it  was  certain  to  come 
sooner  or  later,  and  to  be  followed  by  a  bad  half-hour, 
which  Cornish  devoted  to  past  mistakes.  Indeed, 
Cornish's  attitude  towards  him  had  become,  through 
long  association,  one  of  chronic  criticism,  and  he  was 
certain  to  be  unpleasantly  affected  both  by  what  he 
did  and  by  what  he  left  undone. 

"Why  don't  you  wait  until  the  general  re- 
turns from  England?  That's  not  far  off  now. 

222 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

Under  the  circumstances  he'll  accept  your  resigna- 
tion." 

"He  will  have  to/'  said  Oakley,  briefly. 

"Don't  worry;  he'll  probably  demand  it,"  re- 
marked the  vice-president,  disagreeably. 

"  If  you  are  so  sure  of  this,  why  don't  you  accept 
it?"  retorted  Dan. 

"  I  have  no  one  to  appoint  in  your  place." 

"  What's  wrong  with  Holt?  He'll  do  temporarily." 

"I  couldn't  feel  positive  of  his  being  satisfactory 
to  General  Cornish.  He's  a  very  young  man,  ain't 
he?" 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  you'd  call  him  a  young  man,  but 
he  has  been  with  the  road  for  a  long  time,  and  has  a 
pretty  level  head.  I  have  found  him  very  trust- 
worthy." 

"I  would  have  much  greater  confidence  in  Kerr. 
He's  quiet  and  conservative,  and  he's  had  an  excel- 
lent training  with  us." 

"  Well,  then,  you  can  get  him.  He  is  doing  noth- 
ing, and  will  be  glad  to  come." 

"But  you  have  probably  succeeded  in  antago- 
nizing him." 

"I  hope  so,"  with  sudden  cheerfulness.  "It  was 
a  hardship  not  to  be  able  to  give  him  a  sound  thrash- 
ing. That's  what  he  deserved." 

Holloway  looked  shocked.  The  young  man  was 
displaying  a  recklessness  of  temper  which  was  most 
unseemly  and  entirely  unexpected. 

"I  guess  it  will  be  well  for  you  to  think  it  over, 
Oakley,  before  you  conclude  to  break  with  General 

223 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

Cornish.  To  go  now  will  be  rather  shabby  of  you, 
and  you  owe  him  fair  treatment.  Just  remember 
it  was  those  reforms  of  yours  that  started  the  strike, 
in  the  first  place.  I  know — I  know.  What  you  did 
you  did  with  his  approval.  The  men  are  peaceable 
enough,  ain't  they?"  and  he  glared  at  Oakley  with 
mingled  disfavor  and  weariness. 

"Anybody  can  handle  them  but  me.1' 

"It  won't  be  long  until  they  are  begging  you  to 
open  the  shops.  They  will  be  mighty  sick  of  the 
trouble  they've  shouldered  when  their  money  is  all 
gone." 

"  They  will  never  come  to  me  for  that,  Mr.  Hollo- 
way,"  said  Dan.  "I  think  they  would,  one  and  all, 
rather  starve  than  recognize  my  position." 

"They'll  have  to.  We'll  make  them.  We  mustn't 
let  them  think  we  are  weakening." 

"You  don't  appreciate  the  feeling  of  intense  hos- 
tility they  have  for  me." 

"  Of  course  the  murder  of  that  man — what  was  his 
name?" 

"Ryder,  you  mean." 

"  Was  unfortunate.  I  don't  wonder  you  have  some 
feeling  about  going  back." 

Dan  smiled  sadly. 

The  vice-president  was  wonderfully  moderate  in 
his  choice  of  words.  He  added:  "But  it  is  really 
best  for  the  interest  of  those  concerned  that  you 
should  go  and  do  what  you  can  to  bring  about  a 
settlement." 

"  It  would  be  the  sheerest  idiocy  for  me  to  attempt 
224 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

it.  The  town  may  go  hungry  from  now  till  the  end 
of  its  days,  but  it  won't  have  me  at  any  price." 

"  I  always  told  Cornish  he  should  sell  the  road  the 
first  opportunity  he  got.  He  had  the  chance  once 
and  you  talked  him  out  of  it.  Now  you  don't  want 
to  stand  by  the  situation." 

"I  do,"  said  Oakley,  rising.  "I  want  to  see  an 
understanding  reached  with  the  men,  and  I  am  go- 
ing to  do  what  I  can  to  help  along.  You  will  please 
to  consider  that  I  have  resigned.  I  don't  for  the  life 
of  me  see  how  you  can  expect  me  to  show  my  face  in 
Antioch,"  and  with  that  he  stalked  from  the  place. 
He  was  thoroughly  angry.  He  heard  Holloway  call 
after  him : 

"I  won't  accept  your  resignation.  You'll  have 
to  wait  until  you  see  Cornish!" 

Dan  strode  out  into  the  street,  not  knowing  what 
he  would  do.  He  was  disheartened  and  exasper- 
ated at  the  stand  Holloway  had  taken. 

Presently  his  anger  moderated  and  his  pace 
slackened.  He  had  been  quite  oblivious  to  what 
was  passing  about  him,  and  now  for  the  first  time, 
above  the  rattle  of  carts  and  trucks,  he  heard  the 
newsboys  shrilly  calling  an  extra.  He  caught  the 
words,  "All  about  the  big  forest  fire!"  repeated  over 
and  over  again. 

He  bought  a  paper  and  opened  it  idly,  but  a  double- 
leaded  head -line  arrested  his  attention.  It  was  a 
brief  special  from  Buckhorn  Junction.  He  read  it 
with  feverish  interest.  Antioch  was  threatened 
with  complete  destruction  by  the  forest  fires,  which 
P  225 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

for  several  weeks  had  been  raging  in  the  northern 
part  of  the  State.  All  traffic  was  suspended,  and 
the  exact  condition  could  only  be  guessed  at,  but 
there  had  been  repeated  calls  for  help.  The  neigh- 
boring towns  had  responded  to  these  appeals  by 
sending  fire-engines  and  hose,  which  were  still  wait- 
ing at  Buckhorn  Junction  to  go  through.  Oakley 
knew  that  the  long  drought  had  so  diminished  the 
available  water  supply  that,  in  an  emergency  of  this 
kind,  Antioch  must  depend  on  the  river. 

The  town  derived  its  regular  water  supply  from 
a  stand-pipe,  fed  from  a  small  reservoir.  In  ordi- 
nary seasons,  and  under  ordinary  circumstances,  the 
force  was  sufficient  to  meet  all  needs,  but  on  an  oc- 
casion such  as  the  present  the  equipment  of  the 
local  fire  department,  consisting  of  two  hose-carts 
and  a  single  old-fashioned  hand -engine,  would  be 
quite  useless. 

Oakley's  hands  shook  as  they  clutched  the  paper. 
He  forgot  his  own  troubles ;  all  in  an  instant  he  was 
alive  to  the  danger  that  threatened  Constance.  She 
was  a  prisoner  in  the  menaced  town,  in  the  very  cen- 
tre of  an  impending  tragedy.  The  thought  of  her 
possible  peril  sent  the  blood  surging  away  from  his 
heart. 

Ten  minutes  later  Dan  again  presented  himself  to 
Holloway.  His  face  had  lost  its  former  look  of 
dogged  determination.  It  had  become  keen  and 
pinched  with  a  sudden  anxiety. 

"  It's  all  right,  Mr.  Holloway,"  he  cried  as  he  en- 
tered the  office.  "You  needn't  bother  about  my 

226 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

resignation.  I'll  take  the  first  train  for  Antioch. 
Have  you  seen  this?"  and  he  held  out  the  crumpled 
page  he  had  just  torn  from  his  newspaper. 

Holloway  glanced  up  in  astonishment  at  this  un- 
looked-for change  of  heart. 

"  I  thought  you'd  conclude  it  was  no  way  to  treat 
General  Cornish/'  he  said. 

"Hang  Cornish!  It's  not  on  his  account  I'm 
going.  The  town  is  in  a  fair  way  to  be  wiped  off 
the  map.  Here,  read." 

And  he  thrust  the  paper  into  Holloway's  hands. 
"The  woods  to  the  north  and  west  of  Antioch 
have  been  blazing  for  two  days.  They  have  sent 
out  call  after  call  for  help,  and  apparently  nobody 
has  responded  yet.  That's  why  I  am  going  back, 
and  for  no  other  reason." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

AT  Buckhorn  Junction,  Joe  Durks,  who  combined 
the  duties  of  telegraph  operator  with  those  of 
baggage-master  and  ticket-agent,  was  at  his  table 
receiving  a  message  when  Dan  Oakley  walked  into 
the  office.  He  had  just  stepped  from  the  Chicago 
express. 

"What's  the  latest  word  from  Antioch,  Joe?"  he 
asked,  hurriedly. 

"  How  are  you,  Mr.  Oakley?    I  got  Antioch  now." 

''What  do  they  say?" 

"  They  are  asking  help." 

The  metallic  clicking  of  the  instrument  before 
him  ceased  abruptly. 

"What's  wrong,  anyhow?"  He  pushed  back  his 
chair  and  came  slowly  to  his  feet.  His  finger  was 
still  on  the  key.  He  tried  again  to  call  up  Antioch. 
"They  are  cut  off.  I  guess  the  wire  is  down." 

The  two  men  stared  at  each  other  in  silence. 

Dan's  face  was  white  in  the  murky,  smoky  twi- 
light that  filled  the  room.  Durks  looked  anxious — 
the  limit  of  his  emotional  capacity.  He  was  a  lank, 
colorless  youth,  with  pale  yellow  tobacco  stains 
about  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  a  large  nose, 
which  was  superior  to  its  surroundings. 

228 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

Oakley  broke  silence  with : 

"What's  gone  through  to-day,  Joe?" 

"  Nothing's  gone  through  on  the  B.  &  A.  There's 
nothing  to  send  from  this  end  of  the  line/'  the  opera- 
tor answered,  nervously. 

"  What  went  through  yesterday?" 

" Nothing  yesterday,  either." 

"Where  is  No.  7?" 

"It's  down  at  Harrison,  Mr.  Oakley/' 

"And  No.  9?" 

"It's  at  Harrison,  too." 

"  Do  you  know  what  they  are  doing  at  Harrison?" 
demanded  Oakley,  angrily. 

It  seemed  criminal  negligence  that  no  apparent 
effort  had  as  yet  been  made  to  reach  Antioch. 

"  I  don't,"  said  Durks,  laconically,  biting  his  nails. 
"  I  suppose  they  are  waiting  for  the  fire  to  burn  out" 

"Why  don't  you  know?"  persisted  Dan,  tartly. 
His  displeasure  moved  the  operator  to  a  fuller  ex- 
planation. 

"It  was  cut  off  yesterday  morning.  The  last 
word  I  got  was  that  No.  7  was  on  a  siding  there,  and 
that  No.  9,  which  started  at  8.15  for  Antioch,  had 
had  to  push  back.  The  fire  was  in  between  Antioch 
and  Harrison,  on  both  sides  of  the  track,  and  blaz- 
ing to  beat  hell." 

Having  reached  this  verbal  height,  he  relapsed 
into  comparative  indifference. 

"Where's  the  freight?"  questioned  Oakley. 

"  The  last  I  heard  it  was  trying  to  make  Parker's 
Run." 

229 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"When  was  that?" 

"  That  was  yesterday  morning,  too.  It  had  come 
up  that  far  from  Antioch  the  day  before  to  haul  out 
four  carloads  of  ties.  Holt  gave  the  order.  It  is 
still  there,  for  all  I  know — that  is,  if  it  ain't  burned  or 
ditched.  I  sent  down  the  extra  men  from  the  yards 
here  to  help  finish  loading  the  cars.  I  had  Holt's 
order  for  it,  and  supposed  he  knew  what  was  wanted. 
They  ain't  come  back,  but  they  got  there  ahead  of 
the  freight  all  right." 

Oakley  felt  this  care  for  a  few  hundred  dollars' 
worth  of  property  to  have  been  unnecessary,  in  view 
of  the  graver  peril  that  threatened  Antioch.  Still, 
it  was  not  Durks's  fault.  It  was  Holt  who  was  to 
blame.  He  had  probably  lost  his  head  in  the  gen- 
eral alarm  and  excitement. 

While  Harrison  might  be  menaced  by  the  fire,  it 
was  in  a  measure  protected  by  the  very  nature  of 
its  surroundings.  But  with  Antioch,  where  there 
was  nothing  to  stay  the  progress  of  the  flames,  the 
case  was  different.  With  a  north  wind  blowing, 
they  could  sweep  over  the  town  unhindered. 

"  Yesterday  the  wind  shifted  a  bit  to  the  west,  and 
for  a  while  they  thought  Antioch  was  out  of  danger," 
said  Durks,  who  saw  what  was  in  Oakley's  mind. 

"What  have  you  heard  from  the  other  towns?" 

"They're  deserted.  Everybody's  gone  to  An- 
tioch or  Harrison.  There  was  plenty  of  time  for 
that,  and  when  No.  7  made  her  last  run,  I  wired 
ahead  that  it  was  the  only  train  we  could  send  out." 

"  How  did  you  get  the  extra  men  to  Parker's  Run?" 
230 


The  Manager  of  the  B.   &  A. 

"Baker  took  'em  there  on  the  switch  engine.  I 
sent  him  down  again  this  morning  to  see  what  was 
the  matter  with  the  freight,  but  he  only  went  to  the 
ten-mile  fill  and  come  back.  He  said  he  couldn't 
go  any  farther.  I  guess  he  wasn't  so  very  keen  to 
try.  He  said  he  hadn't  the  money  put  by  for  his 
funeral  expenses." 

"They  told  me  up  above  that  the  M.  &  W.  had 
hauled  a  relief  train  for  Antioch.  What  has  been 
done  with  it?  Have  you  made  an  effort  to  get  it 
through?" 

Durks  looked  distressed.  Within  the  last  three 
days  flights  of  inspiration  and  judgment  had  been 
demanded  of  him  such  as  he  hoped  would  never 
be  required  again.  And  for  forty-eight  hours  he 
had  been  comforting  himself  with  the  thought  that 
about  everything  on  wheels  owned  by  the  Huckle- 
berry was  at  the  western  terminus  of  the  road. 

"  It  ain't  much  of  a  relief  train,  Mr.  Oakley.  Two 
cars,  loaded  with  fire-engines  and  a  lot  of  old  hose. 
They  are  on  the  siding  now." 

"Were  any  men  sent  here  with  the  relief  train?" 
questioned  Oakley. 

"No;  Antioch  just  wanted  hose  and  engines. 
The  water's  played  out,  and  they  got  to  depend  on 
the  river  if  the  fire  strikes  the  town.  They're  in 
pretty  bad  shape,  with  nothing  but  one  old  hand- 
engine.  You  see,  their  water-mains  are  about  empty 
and  their  hose-carts  ain't  worth  a  damn." 

Oakley  turned  on  his  heel  and  strode  from  the 
office.  The  operator  followed  him.  As  they  gained 

231 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

the  platform  Dan  paused.  The  very  air  was  heavy 
with  smoke.  The  sun  was  sinking  behind  a  blue 
film.  Its  dull  disk  was  the  color  of  copper.  He 
wondered  if  the  same  sombre  darkness  was  settling 
down  on  Antioch.  The  element  of  danger  seemed 
very  real  and  present.  To  Dan  this  danger  cen- 
tred about  Constance  Emory.  He  quite  overlooked 
the  fact  that  there  were  several  thousand  other  peo- 
ple in  Antioch.  Durks,  at  his  side,  rubbed  the  sandy 
bristles  on  his  chin  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  and 
tried  to  believe  he  had  thought  of  everything  and 
had  done  everything  there  was  to  do. 

The  woods  were  on  fire  all  about  the  Junction, 
but  the  town  itself  was  in  no  especial  danger,  as 
cultivated  fields  intervened  to  shut  away  the  flames. 
In  these  fields  Dan  could  see  men  and  women  busy 
at  work  tearing  down  fences.  On  a  hillside  a  mile 
off  a  barn  was  blazing. 

"  There  goes  Warrick's  barn,"  remarked  the  oper- 
ator. 

"What  was  the  last  word  from  Antioch?  Do  you 
remember  exactly  what  was  said?"  asked  Dan. 

"  The  message  was  that  a  strong  north  wind  was 
blowing,  and  that  the  town  was  pretty  certain  to 
burn  unless  the  engines  and  hose  reached  there  to- 
night; but  they  have  been  saying  that  for  two  days, 
and  the  wind's  always  changed  at  the  right  moment 
and  driven  the  fire  back." 

Dan  glanced  along  the  track,  and  saw  the  relief 
train,  consisting  of  an  engine,  tender,  and  two  flat- 
cars,  loaded  with  hose  and  fire-engines,  on  one  of 

232 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

the  sidings.  He  turned  on  Durks  with  an  angry 
scowl. 

"Why  haven't  you  tried  to  start  that  train 
through?  It's  ready." 

"  No  one  is  here  to  go  with  it,  Mr.  Oakley.  I  was 
sort  of  counting  on  the  freight  crew  for  the  job." 

"Where's  Baker?" 

"  He  went  home  on  the  6. 10.  He  lives  up  at  Car- 
son, you  know." 

This  was  the  first  stop  on  the  M.  &  W.  east  of 
Buckhorn. 

"Why  did  you  let  him  leave?  Great  God,  man! 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he's  been  loafing  around 
here  all  day  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets?  He'll 
never  pull  another  throttle  for  the  Huckleberry!" 

Durks  did  not  attempt  to  reply  to  this  explosion 
of  wrath. 

"Who  made  up  the  train?"  demanded  Dan. 

"Baker  did.  Him  and  his  fireman.  I  didn't 
know  but  the  freight  might  come  up  from  Parker's 
Run,  and  I  wanted  to  be  fixed  for  'em.  I  couldn't 
do  a  thing  with  Baker.  I  told  him  his  orders  were 
to  try  and  reach  Antioch  with  the  relief  train,  but  he 
said  he  didn't  care  a  damn  who  gave  the  order,  he 
wasn't  going  to  risk  his  life." 

But  Dan  had  lost  interest  in  Baker. 

"  Look  here,"  he  cried.  "  You  must  get  a  fireman 
for  me,  and  I'll  take  out  the  train  myself." 

He  wondered  why  he  had  not  thought  of  this  be- 
fore. 

"I  guess  I'll  manage  to  reach  Antioch,"  he  added, 

233 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

as  he  ran  across  to  the  siding  and  swung  himself 
into  the  cab. 

A  faded  blue  blouse  and  a  pair  of  greasy  over- 
alls were  lying  on  the  seat  in  the  cab.  He  removed 
his  coat  and  vest  and  put  them  on.  Durks,  who 
had  followed  him,  climbed  up  on  the  steps. 

"You'll  have  to  run  slow,  Mr.  Oakley,  because 
it's  likely  the  heat  has  spread  the  rails,  if  it  ain't 
twisted  them  loose  from  the  ties,"  he  volunteered. 
For  answer  Oakley  thrust  a  shovel  into  his  hands. 

"Here,  throw  in  some  coal,"  he  ordered,  opening 
the  furnace  door. 

Durks  turned  a  sickly,  mottled  white. 

"  I  can't  leave,"  he  gasped. 

"You  idiot.  You  don't  suppose  I'd  take  you 
from  your  post.  What  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  help 
me  get  up  steam." 

The  operator  attacked  the  coal  on  the  tender  vig- 
orously. He  felt  an  immense  sense  of  comfort. 

Dan's  railroad  experience  covered  nearly  every 
branch.  So  it  chanced  that  he  had  fired  for  a  year 
prior  to  taking  an  office  position.  Indeed,  his  first 
ambition  had  been  to  be  an  engineer.  It  was  now 
quite  dark,  and,  the  fires  being  raked  down,  he  lit  a 
torch  and  inspected  his  engine  with  a  comprehensive 
eye.  Next  he  probed  a  two-foot  oiler  into  the  rods 
and  bearings  and  filled  the  cups.  He  found  a  cer- 
tain pleasure  in  the  fact  that  the  lore  of  .the  craft  to 
which  he  had  once  aspired  was  still  fresh  in  his  mind. 

"Baker  keeps  her  in  apple-pie  order,  Joe,"  he  ob- 
served, approvingly.  The  operator  nodded. 

234 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"He's  always  tinkering." 

"  Well,  he's  done  tinkering  for  us,  unless  I  land  in 
a  ditch  to-night,  with  the  tender  on  top  of  me." 

A  purring  sound  issued  from  the  squat  throat  of 
the  engine.  It  was  sending  aloft  wreaths  of  light 
gray  smoke  and  softly  spitting  red-hot  cinders. 

Dan  climbed  upon  the  tender  and  inspected  the 
tank.  Last  of  all  he  went  forward  and  lit  the  head- 
light, and  his  preparations  were  complete.  He 
jumped  down  from  the  cab,  and  stood  beside  Joe  on 
the  platform. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  cheerfully,  "  where's  that  fireman, 
Joe?" 

"He's  gone  home,  Mr.  Oakley.  He  lives  at  Car- 
son, too,  same  as  Baker,"  faltered  the  operator. 

"Then  there's  another  man  whose  services  we 
won't  require  in  future.  We'll  have  to  find  some  one 
else." 

"I  don't  think  you  can,"  ventured  Durks,  reluc- 
tantly. Instinct  told  him  that  this  opinion  would 
not  tend  to  increase  his  popularity  with  Oakley. 

"Why  not?" 

"  They  just  won't  want  to  go." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  they  will  allow  An- 
tioch  to  burn  and  not  lift  a  hand  to  save  the  town?" 
he  demanded,  sternly. 

He  couldn't  believe  it. 

"  Well,  you  see,  there  won't  any  one  here  want  to 
get  killed;  and  they  will  think  they  got  enough 
trouble  of  their  own  to  keep  them  home." 

"We  can  go  up -town  and  see  if  we  can't  find  a 
235 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

man  who  thinks  of  more  than  his  own  skin,"  said 
Dan. 

"Oh,  yes,  we  can  try,"  agreed  Durks,  apathetical- 
ly, but  his  tone  implied  an  unshaken  conviction  that 
the  search  would  prove  a  fruitless  one. 

"Can't  you  think  of  any  one  who  would  like 
to  make  the  trip?"  Durks  was  thoughtful.  He 
thanked  his  lucky  stars  that  the  M.  &  W.  paid  half 
his  salary.  At  last  he  said : 

"No,  I  can't,  Mr.  Oakley." 

There  was  a  sound  like  the  crunching  of  cinders 
underfoot  on  the  other  side  of  the  freight  car  near 
where  they  were  standing,  but  neither  Durks  nor 
Oakley  heard  it.  The  operator's  jaws  worked  stead- 
ily in  quiet  animal  enjoyment  of  their  task.  He 
was  still  canvassing  the  Junction's  adult  male  pop- 
ulation for  the  individual  to  whom  life  had  become 
sufficiently  burdensome  for  Oakley's  purpose.  Dan 
was  gazing  down  the  track  at  the  red  blur  in  the  sky. 
Back  of  that  ruddy  glow,  in  the  path  of  the  flames, 
lay  Antioch.  The  wind  was  in  the  north.  He  was 
thinking,  as  he  had  many  times  in  the  last  hour,  of 
Constance  and  the  Emorys.  In  the  face  of  the  danger 
that  threatened  he  even  had  a  friendly  feeling  for  the 
rest  of  Antioch.  It  had  been  decent  and  kindly  in 
its  fashion  until  Ryder  set  to  work  to  ruin  him. 

He  knew  he  might  ride  into  Antioch  on  his  engine 
none  the  worse  for  the  trip,  except  for  a  few  burns, 
but  there  was  the  possibility  of  a  more  tragic  ending. 
Still,  whatever  the  result,  he  would  have  done  his 
full  part 

236 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

He  faced  Durks  again. 

"Any  man  who  knows  enough  to  shovel  coal  will 
do,"  he  said. 

"  But  no  one  will  want  to  take  such  long  chances, 
Mr.  Oakley.  Baker  said  it  was  just  plain  suicide." 

"Hell!"  and  Dan  swore  like  a  brakeman  out  of 
temper,  in  the  bad,  thoughtless  manner  of  his  youth. 

At  the  same  moment  a  heavy,  slouching  figure 
emerged  from  the  shadow  at  the  opposite  end  of  the 
freight  car,  and  came  hesitatingly  towards  the  two 
men.  Then  a  voice  said,  in  gentle  admonition : 

"  Don't  swear  so,  Dannie.  It  ain't  right.  I'll  go 
with  you." 

It  was  his  father. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A^TIOCH  had  grown  indifferent  to  forest  fires. 
They  were  of  almost  annual  recurrence,  and 
the  town  had  come  to  expect  them  each  fall.  As  the 
Hon.  Jeb  Barrows  remarked,  with  cheerful  optimism, 
voicing  a  popular  belief,  if  it  was  intended  Antioch 
should  go  that  way  it  would  have  gone  long 
ago. 

But  this  summer  the  drought  had  been  of  longer 
duration  than  usual.  The  woods  were  like  tinder, 
and  the  inevitable  wadding  from  some  careless  hunt- 
er's gun,  or  the  scattered  embers  from  some  camp-fire 
far  up  in  the  northern  part  of  the  State,  had  started 
a  conflagration  that  was  licking  up  miles  of  timber 
and  moving  steadily  south  behind  a  vast  curtain  of 
smoke  that  darkened  half  the  State.  It  was  only 
when  the  burned-out  settlers  from  the  north  began 
to  straggle  in  that  Antioch  awoke  to  a  proper  sense 
of  its  danger. 

Quick  upon  the  heels  of  these  fugitives  came  the 
news  that  the  half-dozen  families  at  Barrow's  Saw 
Mills  had  been  forced  to  flee  from  their  homes.  The 
fire  had  encircled  the  mills  in  a  single  night,  and  one 
old  man,  a  trapper  and  hunter,  who  lived  alone  in  a 
cabin  in  a  small  clearing  on  the  outskirts  of  the  set- 

238 


The  Manager  of  the  B.   &  A. 

tlement,  had  been  burned  to  death  in  his  bunk  before 
he  could  be  warned  of  his  danger  or  help  reach  him. 

It  was  then  that  Antioch  sent  out  its  first  call  for 
help.  It  needed  fire-engines  and  hose,  and  it  needed 
them  badly,  especially  the  hose,  for  the  little  reser- 
voir from  which  the  town  drew  its  water  supply  was 
almost  empty. 

Antioch  forgot  the  murder  of  Ryder.  It  forgot 
Roger  Oakley,  the  strike,  and  all  lesser  affairs.  A 
common  danger  threatened  its  homes,  perhaps  the 
lives  of  its  citizens. 

A  score  of  angry  men  were  stamping  up  and  down 
the  long  platform  across  from  the  shops,  or  pushing 
in  and  out  of  the  ugly  little  depot,  which  had  taken 
on  years  in  apparent  age  and  decay  in  the  two  days 
during  which  no  trains  had  been  running. 

They  were  abusing  Holt,  the  railroad,  and  every 
one  connected  with  it.  For  the  thousandth  time 
they  demanded  to  know  where  the  promised  relief 
train  was — if  it  had  started  from  Buckhorn  Junction, 
and,  if  it  hadn't  started,  the  reason  of  the  delay. 

The  harried  assistant-treasurer  answered  these 
questions  as  best  he  could. 

"  Are  you  going  to  let  the  town  burn  without  mak- 
ing a  move  to  save  it?"  demanded  an  excited  citizen. 

"  You  don't  think  I  am  any  more  anxious  to  see  it 
go  than  you  are?"  retorted  Holt,  angrily. 

"Then  why  don't  your  damn  road  do  something 
to  prevent  it?" 

"  The  road's  doing  all  it  can,  gentlemen."  \ 

"That's  a  whole  lot,  ain't  it?" 
239 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"We  are  cut  off/'  said  Holt,  helplessly.  "Every- 
thing's  tied  up  tight." 

"You  can  wire,  can't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  can  wire;  I  have  wired." 

"Well,  where's  the  relief  train,  then?" 

"It's  at  the  Junction." 

"  It's  going  to  do  us  a  lot  of  good  there,  ain't  it?" 

"  They'll  send  it  as  soon  as  they  can  get  togethei 
a  crew." 

"Stir  them  up  again,  Holt.  Tell  'em  we  got  ta 
have  that  hose  and  those  engines,  or  the  town's 
gone.  It's  a  matter  of  life  and  death." 

Holt  turned  back  into  the  depot,  and  the  crowd 
dispersed. 

In  the  ticket-office  he  found  McClintock,  who  had 
just  come  in  from  up-town.  The  master  mechanic's 
face  was  unusually  grave. 

"  I  have  been  investigating  the  water  supply  with 
the  city  engineer.  Things  are  in  awful  shape.  The 
mains  are  about  empty,  and  there  isn't  pressure 
enough  from  the  stand-pipe  to  throw  a  thirty-five 
foot  stream." 

"  I  wish  Oakley  was  here,"  muttered  Holt. 

"  So  do  I.  Somehow  he  had  a  knack  at  keeping 
things  moving.  I  don't  mean  but  what  you've  done 
your  level  best,  Byron,"  he  added,  kindly. 

"They've  laid  down  on  me  at  the  Junction,"  said 
the  younger  man,  bitterly. 

He  stepped  to  the  door,  mopping  his  face  with  his 
handkerchief,  and  stood  looking  down  the  track  in 
the  direction  of  Buckhorn. 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"  They  made  it  so  Oakley  couldn't  stay,  and  now 
they  wonder  why  the  relief  train  is  hung  up.  All 
Durks  says  is  that  he  can't  get  a  crew.  I  tell  you  if 
Oakley  was  here  he'd  have  to  get  one." 

"  It  was  a  mistake  to  send  the  yard  engine  up  to 
Parker's  Run.  If  we  had  it  here  now — " 

"  How  in  hell  was  /  to  know  we'd  need  it?  I  had 
to  try  to  save  those  ties,  and  we  thought  the  wind  was 
shifting  into  the  south,"  in  fierce  justification  of  his 
course. 

"That's  so,  all  right,"  said  McClintock.  "We 
did  think  the  danger  was  past ;  only  we  shouldn't 
have  taken  any  chances." 

At  this  point  they  were  joined  by  Dr.  Emory. 

"Anything  new  from  Buckhorn?"  he  inquired, 
anxiously. 

"  No,  it's  the  same  old  story.  Durks  ain't  got  any- 
body to  send." 

"Damn  his  indifference!"  muttered  McClintock. 

The  doctor,  like  Holt,  fell  to  mopping  his  face  with 
his  handkerchief. 

"  Don't  he  know  our  danger?  Don't  he  know  we 
can't  fight  the  fire  without  engines  and  hose? — that 
our  water  supply  is  about  exhausted,  and  that  we'll 
have  to  depend  on  the  river?" 

Holt  nodded  wearily. 

"  It  looks  as  though  we  were  to  be  left  to  face  this 
situation  as  best  we  can,  without  help  from  the  out- 
side," said  the  doctor,  uneasily. 

Holt  turned  to  McClintock. 

"Isn't  there  some  method  of  back-firing?" 
Q  241 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"  It's  too  late  to  try  that,  and,  with  this  wind  blow- 
ing, it  would  have  been  too  big  a  risk." 

He  glanced  moodily  across  the  town  to  the  north, 
where  the  black  cloud  hung  low  in  the  sky.  He 
added : 

"  I  have  told  my  wife  to  keep  the  young  ones  in,  no 
matter  what  happens.  But  Lord !  they  will  be  about 
as  well  off  one  place  as  another,  when  it  comes  to  the 
pinch." 

"I  suppose  so,"  agreed  the  doctor.  "I  am  at  a 
loss  to  know  what  precautions  to  take  to  insure  the 
safety  of  Mrs.  Emory  and  my  daughter." 

It  was  only  four  o'clock,  but  it  was  already  quite 
dark  in  the  town — a  strange  half-light  that  twisted 
the  accustomed  shape  of  things.  The  air  was  close, 
stifling;  and  the  wind,  which  blew  in  heavy  gusts, 
was  like  the  breath  from  a  furnace.  The  sombre 
twilight  carried  with  it  a  horrible  sense  of  depression. 
Every  sound  in  nature  was  stilled;  silence  reigned 
supreme.  It  was  the  expectant  hush  of  each  living 
thing. 

The  three  men  stepped  out  on  the  platform.  Holt 
and  the  doctor  were  still  mopping  their  faces  with 
their  limp  handkerchiefs.  McClintock  was  fanning 
himself  with  his  straw  hat.  When  they  spoke  they 
unconsciously  dropped  their  voices  to  a  whisper. 

"  Those  families  in  the  North  End  should  move  out 
of  their  homes,"  said  the  doctor.  "  If  they  wait  until 
the  fire  gets  here,  they  will  save  nothing  but  what 
they  have  on  their  backs." 

"  Yes,  and  the  houses  ought  to  come  down,"  added 
242 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

McClintock.     "There's  where   the  fire  will  get  its 
first  grip  on  the  town,  and  then  Heaven  help  us  I" 

Night  came,  and  so  imminent  seemed  the  danger 
that  Antioch  was  roused  to  something  like  activity. 

A  crowd,  composed  almost  exclusively  of  men, 
gathered  early  on  the  square  before  the  court-house. 

They  had  by  common  consent  given  up  all  hope 
that  the  relief  train  would  be  sent  from  Buckhorn 
Junction.  The  light  in  the  sky  told  them  that  they 
were  completely  cut  off  from  the  outside  world.  The 
town  and  the  woods  immediately  adjacent  formed  an 
island  in  the  centre  of  an  unbroken  sea  of  fire.  The 
ragged  red  line  had  crept  around  to  the  east,  west, 
and  south,  but  the  principal  danger  would  be  from 
the  north,  where  the  wind  drove  the  flames  forward 
with  resistless  fury.  To  the  south  and  east  Billup's 
Fork  interposed  as  a  barrier  to  the  progress  of  the  fire, 
and  on  the  west  was  a  wide  area  of  cultivated  fields. 

At  regular  intervals  waves  of  light  flooded  the 
square,  as  the  freshening  gusts  fanned  the  confla- 
gration or  whirled  across  the  town  great  patches  of 
black  smoke.  In  the  intervals  of  light  a  number  of 
dark  figures  could  be  seen  moving  about  on  the  roof 
of  the  court-house.  Like  the  square  below,  it  was 
crowded  with  anxious  watchers. 

The  crowd  jostled  to  and  fro  on  the  square,  restless 
and  excited,  and  incapable  of  physical  quiet.  Then 
suddenly  a  voice  wras  raised  and  made  itself  heard 
above  the  tramp  of  feet. 

"  Those  houses  in  the  North  End  must  come  down !" 
this  voice  said. 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

There  was  silence,  and  then  a  many-tongued  mur- 
mur. Each  man  present  knew  that  the  residents  of 
the  North  End  had  sworn  that  they  would  not  sacri- 
fice their  homes  to  the  public  good.  If  their  homes 
must  go,  they  much  preferred  to  have  them  burn,  for 
then  the  insurance  companies  would  have  to  bear 
the  loss. 

"Those  houses  must  come  down!"  the  voice  re- 
peated. 

It  was  McClintock  who  had  spoken. 

"Who's  going  to  pull  them  down?"  another  voice 
asked.  "They  are  ready  to  fight  for  them." 

"And  we  ought  to  be  just  as  ready  to  fight,  if  it 
comes  to  that,"  answered  the  master  mechanic. 
"It's  for  the  common  good." 

The  crowd  was  seized  with  a  noisy  agitation.  Its 
pent-up  feelings  found  vent  in  bitter  denunciation 
of  the  North  End.  A  man — it  was  the  Hon.  Jeb 
Barrows — had  mounted  the  court-house  steps,  and 
was  vainly  endeavoring  to  make  himself  heard.  He 
was  counselling  delay,  but  no  one  listened  to  him. 
The  houses  must  be  torn  down  whether  their  owners 
wanted  it  or  not.  McClintock  turned  up  the  street. 

" Fall  in!"  he  shouted,  and  at  least  a  hundred  men 
fell  in  behind  him,  marching  two  abreast.  Here  and 
there,  as  they  moved  along,  a  man  would  forsake 
the  line  to  disappear  into  his  own  gate.  When  he 
rejoined  his  neighbors  he  invariably  carried  an  axe, 
pick,  or  crowbar. 

From  the  square  they  turned  into  Main  Street,  and 
from  Main  Street  into  the  north  road,  and  presently 

244 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

the  head  of  the  procession  halted  before  a  cluster  of 
small  frame  houses  resting  in  a  hollow  to  their  right. 

"These  must  come  down  first,"  said  McClintock. 
"  Now  we  want  no  noise,  men.  We'll  pass  out  their 
stuff  as  quietly  as  we  can,  and  take  it  back  to  the 
square." 

He  swung  open  a  gate  as  he  spoke.  "Williams 
keeps  a  team.  A  couple  of  you  fellows  run  around 
to  the  barn  and  hook  up." 

Just  then  the  front  door  opened,  and  Williams  him- 
self appeared  on  the  threshold.  A  dog  barked,  other 
doors  opened,  lights  gleamed  in  a  score  of  windows, 
and  the  North  End  threw  off  its  cloak  of  silence  and 
darkness. 

"  Keep  quiet,  and  let  me  do  the  talking,"  said  Mc- 
Clintock over  his  shoulder.  Then  to  the  figure  in 
the  doorway: 

"  We  have  come  to  help  you  move,  John.  I  take 
it  you  will  be  wanting  to  leave  here  shortly." 

"  The  hell  you  have ! "  responded  Williams,  roughly. 

"  We'll  give  you  a  hand !"  and  the  master  mechanic 
pushed  through  the  gate  and  took  a  step  down  the 
path. 

"Hold  on!"  cried  Williams,  swinging  out  an  arm. 
"  I  got  something  to  say  about  that!" 

There  was  a  sound  as  of  the  clicking  of  a  lock, 
and  he  presented  the  muzzle  of  a  shot-gun. 

"Oh,  say,"  said  McClintock,  gently;  "you  had 
better  not  try  to  use  that.  It  will  only  make  matters 
worse.  Your  house  has  got  to  come  down." 

"The  hell  it  has!" 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.   &  A. 

"Yes/'  said  McClintock,  still  gently.  "We  got 
to  save  what  we  can  of  the  town." 

Williams  made  no  answer  to  this,  but  McClintcck 
saw  him  draw  the  butt  of  the  gun  up  towards  his 
shoulder. 

The  men  at  his  back  were  perfectly  still.  They 
filled  the  street,  and,  breathing  hard,  pressed  heav- 
ily against  the  picket  fence,  which  bent  beneath  the 
weight  of  their  bodies. 

"You'd  better  be  reasonable.  We  are  losing 
precious  time,"  urged  McClintock. 

"  The  hell  you  are !" 

It  occurred  to  McClintock  afterwards  that  there 
had  been  no  great  variety  to  Williams's  re- 
marks. 

"In  an  hour  or  two  this  place  will  be  on,  fire." 

"  I've  got  no  kick  coming  if  it  burns,  but  it  sha'n't 
be  pulled  down." 

"  Put  up  your  gun,  and  we'll  give  you  a  lift  at  get- 
ting your  stuff  out." 

"No,  you  won't." 

McClintock  kept  his  eyes  on  the  muzzle  of  the  shot- 
gun. 

"  It  ain't  the  property  loss  we  are  thinking  of — it's 
the  possible  loss  of  life,"  he  said,  mildly. 

"I'll  chance  it,"  retorted  Williams,  briefly. 

"Well,  we  won't." 

Williams  made  no  reply;  he  merely  fingered  the 
lock  of  his  gun. 

"Put  down  that  gun,  John!"  commanded  Mc- 
Clintock, sternly. 

246 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

At  the  same  moment  he  reached  around  and  took 
an  axe  from  the  hands  of  the  nearest  man. 

"Put  it  down,"  he  repeated,  as  he  stepped  quickly 
towards  Williams. 

The  listening  men  pressed  heavily  against  the 
fence  in  their  feverish  anxiety  to  miss  nothing  that 
was  said  or  done.  The  posts  snapped,  and  they 
poured  precipitously  into  the  yard.  At  the  same 
moment  the  gun  exploded,  and  a  charge  of  buckshot 
rattled  harmlessly  along  the  pavement  at  McClin- 
tock's  feet. 

Then  succeeded  a  sudden  pause,  deep,  breathless, 
and  intense,  and  then  the  crowd  gave  a  cry — a  cry 
that  was  in  answer  to  a  hoarse  cheer  that  had  reached 
them  from  the  square. 

An  instant  later  the  trampled  front  yard  was  de- 
serted by  all  save  Williams  in  the  doorway.  He  still 
held  the  smoking  gun  to  his  shoulder. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

WHEN  Roger  Oakley  appeared  on  the  platform 
at  Buckhorn  Junction,  Durks  started  vio- 
lently, while  Dan  took  a  quick  step  forward  and 
placed  a  warning  hand  on  the  old  convict's  arm.  He 
feared  what  he  might  say.  Then  he  said  to  the  op- 
erator :  "  He'll  do.  Go  see  if  you  can  get  Antioch. 
Try  just  once  more.  If  you  succeed,  tell  them  the 
engines  and  hose  will  be  there  within  an  hour,  or 
they  need  not  look  for  them.  Do  you  understand?" 

"All  right,  Mr.  Oakley/'  And  Durks  moved  up 
the  platform  with  alacrity.  He  was  relieved  of  one 
irksome  responsibility.  He  had  his  own  theories  as 
to  who  the  stranger  was,  but  he  told  himself  it  was 
none  of  his  business 

As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  hearing,  Dan  turned  to 
his  father,  and  said,  earnestly : 

"  Look  here,  daddy,  I  can't  allow  you  to  do  it.  We 
are  neither  of  us  popular.  It's  bad  enough  for  me  to 
have  to  go." 

"Why  can't  you  allow  it,  Dannie?"  And  his  son 
recognized  the  same  cheerful  tone  with  which  he  had 
always  met  and  overruled  his  objections. 

"It  will  end  in  your  arrest,  and  we  don't  want 
that." 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"It's  more  than  likely  I'll  be  arrested  sooner  or 
later,  anyhow/'  he  said,  with  a  suggestion  of  weari- 
ness, as  if  this  were  a  matter  it  was  a  waste  of  time  to 
consider.  "The  Lord  has  set  His  face  against  me. 
It's  His  wish  I  should  return.  I've  been  stubborn 
and  headstrong  and  wouldn't  see  it,  but  look  there," 
and  he  nodded  towards  the  red  western  sky.  "  It's  a 
summons.  I  got  to  obey,  whether  I  want  to  or  not." 

"It  won't  be  safe.  No  telling  what  they  will  do 
with  you." 

"  That  ain't  the  question,  Dannie ;  that  ain't  at  all 
the  question.  It's  not  what  they'll  do  to  me,"  and 
he  softly  patted  the  hand  that  rested  on  his  arm. 

Dan  saw  that  his  clothes  hung  loosely  to  his  mighty 
frame.  They  were  torn  and  stained.  He  had  the 
appearance  of  a  man  who  had  endured  hardship, 
privation,  and  toil.  His  glance  was  fugitive  and  anx- 
ious. "Where  have  you  been  all  this  while?"  he 
asked.  "  Not  here?" 

"  No,  I  have  been  living  in  the  wx>ods,  trying  to 
escape  from  the  country,  and  the  fires  wouldn't  let 
me.  Wherever  I  went,  they  were  there  ahead  of  me, 
driving  me  back." 

"Why  did  you  kill  him?  How  did  it  happen?" 
Dan  added.  "  Or  is  it  all  a  mistake?  Did  you  do  it?" 

The  smile  faded  from  the  old  convict's  lips. 

"  It  was  a  sort  of  accident,  and  it  was  sort  of  care- 
lessness, Dannie,"  he  explained,  with  a  touch  of 
sullenness.  "I  hit  him — not  hard,  mind  you.  I 
know  I  shouldn't  have  done  it,  but  he  was  in  the 
wrong,  and  he  wouldn't  listen  to  reason.  I  don't 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.   &  A. 

know  when  I  ever  seen  a  man  so  set  in  his  wicked- 
ness." 

"And  now  you  want  to  go  back.  Do  3-011  know 
what  it  means  if  \-ou  are  arrested  ?  Have  you  thought 
of  that?" 

Roger  Oakley  waved  the  query  aside  as  though  it 
concerned  him  not  at  all. 

"  I  want  to  be  with  you,"  he  said,  wistfully.  "  You 
may  not  get  through  alive,  and  I  want  to  be  with  you. 
You'll  need  me.  There's  no  one  3*ou  can  trust  as 
you  can  me,  for  I  won't  fail  3~ou,  no  matter  what  the 
danger  is.  And  there's  the  girl,  Dannie.  Have  \~ou 
thought  of  her?" 

Dan  set  his  lips.  "  My  God,  I  can't  think  of  any- 
thing else." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"Here,"  said  Dan,  thrusting  his  hands  into  his 
pockets.  "I  am  going  to  give  you  what  mone\*  I 
have.  It  isn't  much." 

"What  for,  Dannie?" 

"You  are  sure  to  be  seen  and  recognized  if  3~ou 
stay  about  here.  Your  description  has  been  tele- 
graphed all  over  the  State.  For  that  reason  I'll  take 
you  with  me  part  wa\T.  Then  I'll  slow  up,  and  3~ou 
can  hide  again.  It's  3Tour  only  chance.  I  am  sorry 
I  can't  do  more  for  3~ou.  I  wish  I  could;  but  perhaps 
we  can  arrange  to  meet  afterwards." 

His  father  smiled  with  the  unconscious  superiority 
of  the  man  who  firiiuV  believes  he  is  controlled  by  an 
intelligence  infinitelj*  wise  and  be3'ond  all  human 
conception.  No  amount  of  argument  could  have 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

convinced  him  that  Providence  was  not  burning 
millions  of  feet  of  standing  timber  and  an  occasional 
town  solely  for  his  guidance.  In  his  simple  serious- 
ness he  saw  nothing  absurd  nor  preposterous  in  the 
idea.  He  said: 

"  I've  wanted  to  escape,  Dannie,  for  your  sake,  not 
for  mine.  But  when  I  seen  you  to-night  I  knew  the 
Lord  intended  we  should  keep  together.  He  didn't 
bring  us  here  for  nothing.  That  ain't  His  way. 
There's  no  one  to  go  with  3'ou  but  me,  and  you  can't 
go  alone." 

"I  can  —  I  will!"  And  Dan  swore  under  his 
breath.  He  realized  that  no  word  of  his  could  move 
his  father.  He  would  carry  his  point,  just  as  he  al- 
ways had. 

Durks  carne  running  along  the  platform  from  the 
depot. 

"It's  no  use,"  shaking  his  head.  "The  wire's 
down.  Say,  you  want  to  keep  your  eyes  open  for 
the  freight.  It  ma}^  be  on  the  siding  at  Parker's 
Run,  and  it  may  be  on  the  main  track." 

Dan  made  a  last  appeal  to  his  father. 

"Won't  you  listen  to  what  I  say?"  sinking  his 
voice  to  a  hoarse  whisper.  "They'll  hang  you — do 
you  hear?  If  ever  they  lay  hands  on  you  they  will 
show  no  mercy!"  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  his 
father  would  be  returning  under  circumstances  so 
exceptional  that  public  sentiment  might  well  under- 
go a  radical  change  in  his  favor. 

Roger  Oakley  merely  smiled  as  he  answered,  with 
gentle  composure:  "I  don't  think  we  need  to  worry 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

about  that.     We  are  in  His  hands,  Dannie/'  and  he 
raised  his  face  to  the  heavens. 

Dan  groaned. 

"Come,  then/'  he  said  aloud. 

"I'll  throw  the  switch  for  you!"  and  the  operator 
ran  down  the  track.  He  was  quite  positive  he  should 
never  see  Oakley  again,  and  he  felt  something  akin 
to  enthusiasm  at  the  willing  sacrifice  of  his  life  which 
he  conceived  him  to  be  making. 

Father  and  son  stepped  to  the  engine.  The  old 
convict  mounted  heavily  to  his  post,  and  Dan  sprang 
after  him,  his  hand  groping  for  the  throttle  lever. 
There  was  the  hiss  of  steam,  and  Joe  cried  from  the 
darkness : 

"All  right,  come  ahead!"  And  the  engine,  with 
its  tender  and  two  cars,  began  its  hazardous  journey. 

As  they  slipped  past  him,  the  operator  yelled  his 
good-bye,  and  Dan  pushed  open  the  cab  window  and 
waved  his  hand. 

Roger  Oakley,  on  the  narrow  iron  shelf  between 
the  engine  and  the  tender,  was  already  throwing  coal 
into  the  furnace.  His  face  wore  a  satisfied  expres- 
sion. Apparently  he  was  utterly  unmoved  by  the 
excitement  of  the  moment,  for  he  bent  to  his  work  as 
if  it  were  the  most  usual  of  tasks,  and  the  occasion 
the  most  commonplace.  He  had  taken  off  his  coat 
and  vest  and  had  tossed  them  up  on  the  tender  out  of 
his  way.  Dan,  looking  over  the  boiler's  end,  could 
see  his  broad  shoulders  and  the  top  of  his  head.  He 
leaned  back  with  his  hand  on  the  throttle. 

"Father!  "he  called. 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

The  old  convict  straightened  up  instantly. 

"Yes,  Dannie?" 

"You  are  going  with  me?    You  are  determined?" 

"I  thought  we  settled  that,  Dannie,  before  we 
started/'  he  said,  pleasantly,  but  there  was  a  shrewd, 
kindly  droop  to  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  for  he  ap- 
preciated his  victory. 

"  I  want  to  know,  because  if  I  am  to  slow  up  for 
you  I'll  have  to  do  it  soon,  or  I'll  be  leaving  you  in 
worse  shape  than  I  found  you." 

To  this  his  father  made  no  direct  reply.  Instead 
he  asked,  "Do  you  think  we'll  reach  Antioch  in 
time  to  do  them  any  good?"  Dan  faced  about. 

They  slid  into  a  straight  stretch  of  road  beyond 
the  Junction,  and  the  track  shone  yellow  far  ahead, 
where  the  engine  looked  down  upon  it  with  its  single 
eye.  Each  minute  their  speed  increased.  A  steady 
jarring  and  pounding  had  begun  that  grew  into  a 
dull  and  ponderous  roar  as  the  engine  rushed  for- 
ward. Dan  kept  a  sharp  watch  for  the  freight. 

As  Durks  had  said,  it  might  be  on  the  siding  at 
Parker's  Run,  and  it  might  not.  In  the  latter  event, 
his  and  his  father's  troubles  would  soon  be  at  an 
end. 

He  rose  from  his  seat  and  went  to  the  door  of  the 
cab. 

"  We'll  take  it  easy  for  the  first  ten  miles  or  so, 
then  we'll  be  in  the  fire,  and  that  will  be  our  time  to 
hit  her  up." 

Roger  Oakley  nodded  his  acquiescence.  In  what 
he  conceived  to  be  worldly  matters  he  was  quite  will- 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

ing  to  abide  by  Dan's  judgment,  for  which  he  had 
profound  respect. 

"How  fast  are  we  going?"  he  asked.  Dan  stead- 
ied himself  and  listened,  with  a  finger  on  his  pulse, 
until  he  caught  the  rhythmic  swing  of  the  engine,  .as 
it  jarred  from  one  rail  to  another.  Then  he  said : 

"Twenty-five  miles  an  hour." 

"It  ain't  very  fast,  is  it,  Dannie?" 

He  was  evidently  disappointed. 

"We'll  do  twice  that  presently." 

The  old  convict  looked  relieved.  They  were  run- 
ing  now  with  a  strip  of  forest  on  one  side  of  the  track 
and  cultivated  fields  on  the  other,  but  with  each  rod 
they  covered  they  wrere  edging  in  nearer  the  flames. 
At  Parker's  Run  the  road  crossed  a  little  stream 
which  doubled  back  in  the  direction  of  Buckhorn 
Junction.  There  was  nothing  after  that  to  stay  the 
progress  of  the  fire,  and  the  rest  of  their  way  lay 
through  the  blazing  pine-woods. 

Just  before  they  reached  the  ten-mile  fill  they  came 
to  the  strip  of  burned  timber  that  had  sent  Baker 
back  to  Buckhorn  earlier  in  the  day.  Here  and 
there  a  tree  was  still  blazing,  but  for  the  most  part 
the  fire  had  spent  its  strength. 

As  they  swung  past  Parker's  Run  a  little  farther 
on,  Dan  saw  the  freight,  or,  rather,  what  was  left  of  it, 
on  the  siding.  It  had  been  cutting  out  four  flat-cars 
loaded  with  ties,  and  he  understood  the  difficulty  at 
a  glance.  On  the  main  track  a  brick-and-stone  cul- 
vert spanned  the  Run,  but  the  siding  crossed  it  on  a 
flimsy  wooden  bridge.  This  bridge  had  probably 

254 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

been  burning  as  the  freight  backed  in  for  the  flat- 
cars,  and  when  it  attempted  to  pull  out  the  weak- 
ened structure  had  collapsed  and  the  engine  had  gone 
through  into  the  cut.  It  rested  on  its  forward  end, 
jammed  between  the  steep  banks,  with  its  big  drivers 
in  the  air.  Of  the  cars  there  remained  only  the 
trucks  and  iron  work.  Near  by  a  tool-shed  had  for- 
merly stood,  but  that  was  gone,  too.  The  wheels 
and  gearing  of  a  hand-car  in  the  midst  of  a  heap  of 
ashes  marked  the  spot. 

Dan  turned  to  his  father.  "Are  you  all  right, 
daddy?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  Dannie." 

"  Mind  your  footing.  It  will  be  pretty  shaky  back 
there." 

They  were  still  in  the  burned  district,  where  a 
change  in  the  wind  that  afternoon  had  driven  the  fire 
back  on  itself.  It  had  made  a  clean  sweep  of  everj7- 
thing  inflammable.  Luckily  the  road  had  been 
freshly  ballasted,  and  the  track  was  in  fair  condition 
to  resist  the  flames.  But  an  occasional  tie  smoul- 
dered, and  from  these  the  rushing  train  thrashed 
showers  of  sparks. 

Dan  kept  his  eyes  fastened  on  the  rails,  which 
showed  plainly  in  the  jerky  glare  of  the  headlight. 
It  wras  \vell  to  be  careful  while  care  was  possible.  By- 
and-by  he  would  have  to  throw  aside  all  caution  and 
trust  to  chance.  Now  he  increased  his  speed,  and 
the  insistent  thud  of  the  wheels  drowned  every  other 
sound,  even  the  far-off  roar  of  the  flames.  At  his 
back,  at  intervals,  a  ruddy  glow  shot  upward  into 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

the  night,  when  Roger  Oakley  threw  open  the  fur- 
nace door  to  pass  in  coal.  Save  for  this  it  was  still 
quite  dark  in  the  cab,  where  Dan  sat  with  his  hand 
on  the  throttle  lever  and  watched  the  yellow  streak 
that  ran  along  the  rails  in  advance  of  the  engine. 
Suddenly  the  wall  of  light  ahead  brightened  visibly, 
and  its  glare  filled  the  cab.  They  were  nearing  the 
fire. 

Dan  jammed  the  little  window  at  his  elbow  open 
and  put  out  his  head.  A  hot  blast  roared  past  him, 
and  the  heat  of  the  fire  was  in  his  face.  He  drew  the 
window  shut.  It  was  light  as  day  in  the  cab  now. 

He  leaned  across  the  boiler's  end,  and,  with  a  hand 
to  his  lips,  called  to  his  father,  "  Are  you  all  right?" 

The  old  man  drew  himself  erect  and  crept  nearer. 

"What's  that  you  say,  Dannie?"  he  asked.  His 
face  was  black  with  coal-dust  and  grime. 

"Are  you  all  right?     Can  you  bear  the  heat?" 

"  I  am  doing  very  nicely,  but  this  ain't  a  patch  on 
what  it's  going  to  be." 

"Yes,  it  will  be  much  worse,  though  this  is  bad 
enough." 

"But  we  can  stand  it.  We  must  think  of  those 
poor  people  at  Antioch." 

"We'll  stick  to  the  engine  as  long  as  the  engine 
sticks  to  the  rails,"  said  Dan,  grimly.  "  Hadn't  you 
better  come  into  the  cab  with  me?  You'll  be  fright- 
fully exposed  when  we  get  into  the  thick  of  it." 

"Not  yet,  Dannie?  I'll  give  you  steam,  and  you 
drive  her  as  hard  as  you  can." 

He  turned  away,  shovel  in  hand. 
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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

Then,  all  in  a  second,  and  they  were  in  the  burn- 
ing woods,  rushing  beneath  trees  that  were  blazing 
to  their  very  summits.  The  track  seemed  to  shake 
and  tremble  in  the  fierce  light  and  fiercer  heat.  Burn- 
ing leaves  and  branches  were  caught  up  to  be  whirled 
in  fiery  eddies  back  down  the  rails  as  the  train  tore 
along,  for  Dan  was  hitting  her  up. 

Tongues  of  fire  struck  across  at  the  two  men. 
Smoke  and  fine  white  ashes  filled  their  mouths  and 
nostrils.  Their  bodies  seemed  to  bake.  They  had 
been  streaming  wet  with  perspiration  a  moment  be- 
fore. 

Off  in  the  forest  it  was  possible  to  see  for  miles. 
Every  tree  and  bush  stood  forth  distinct  and  separate. 

Roger  Oakley  put  down  his  shovel  for  an  instant 
to  fill  a  bucket  with  water  from  the  tank  on  the  tender. 
He  plunged  his  head  and  arms  in  it  and  splashed  the 
rest  over  his  clothes.  Dan  turned  to  him  for  the  last 
time. 

"It  isn't  far  now,"  he  panted.  "Just  around  the 
next  curve  and  we'll  see  the  town,  if  it's  still  there,  off 
in  the  valley." 

The  old  convict  did  not  catch  more  than  the  half 
of  what  he  said,  but  he  smiled  and  nodded  his  head. 

As  they  swung  around  the  curve  a  dead  sycamore, 
which  the  fire  had  girdled  at  the  base,  crashed  across 
the  track.  The  engine  plunged  into  its  top,  rolled 
it  over  once  and  tossed  it  aside.  There  was  the 
smashing  of  glass  and  the  ripping  of  leather  as  the 
sycamore's  limbs  raked  the  cab,  and  Roger  Oakley 
uttered  a  hoarse  cry,  a  cry  Dan  did  not  hear,  but  he 
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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

turned,  spitting  dust  and  cinders  from  his  lips,  and 
saw  the  old  convict  still  standing,  shovel  in  hand,  in 
the  narrow  gangway  that  separated  the  engine  and 
tender. 

He  had  set  the  whistle  shrieking,  and  it  cut  high 
above  the  roar  of  the  flames,  for,  off  in  the  distance, 
under  a  canopy  of  smoke,  he  saw  the  lights  of  An- 
tioch  shining  among  the  trees. 

Two  minutes  later  and  they  were  running  smooth- 
ly through  the  yards,  with  the  brakes  on  and  the  hiss 
of  escaping  steam.  As  they  slowed  up  beside  the 
depot,  Dan  sank  down  on  the  seat  in  the  cab,  limp  and 
exhausted.  He  was  vaguely  conscious  that  the  plat- 
form was  crowded  with  people,  and  that  they  were 
yelling  at  him  excitedly  and  waving  their  hats,  but 
he  heard  their  cries  only  indifferently  well.  His 
ears  were  dead  to  everything  except  the  noise  of  his 
engine,  which  still  echoed  in  his  tired  brain. 

He  staggered  to  his  feet,  and  was  about  to  descend 
from  the  cab,  when  he  saw  that  his  father  was  lying 
face  down  on  the  iron  shelf  between  the  engine  and 
tender.  He  stooped  and  raised  him  gently  in  his 
arms. 

The  old  convict  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  up  into 
his  face,  his  lips  parted  as  if  he  were  about  to  speak, 
but  no  sound  came  from  them. 


CONSTANCE  EMORY  and  her  mother,  waiting 
quietly  in  their  own  home,  heard  the  cheers 
when  the  noise  from  Dan's  shrieking  engine  reached 
the  crowd  of  desperate  men  on  the  square.  Then 
presently  they  heard  the  rattle  and  clash  of  the  fire- 
engines  as  they  were  dragged  through  the  street, 
and  were  aware  that  the  relief  train  had  arrived,  but 
it  was  not  until  the  doctor  came  in  some  time  long 
after  midnight  that  they  knew  who  had  been  the 
savior  of  the  town. 

"  It's  all  over,  dear.  The  fire  is  under  control,"  he 
said,  cheerfully,  addressing  his  wife.  "I  guess  we 
can  go  to  bed  now  and  feel  pretty  sure  we  won't  be 
burned  out  before  morning." 

Constance  put  down  the  book  she  had  been  trying 
to  read,  and  rose  tiredly  and  stiffly  from  her  chair  be- 
side the  table. 

"  Then  the  train  did  come,  after  all?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  but  not  a  moment  too  soon.  I  tell  you  we 
can't  be  grateful  enough.  I've  been  with  Oak- 
ley and  his  father;  that's  what  kept  me,"  he  ex- 
plained. 

" Oakley!"  Constance  cried,  in  amazement.  "  You 
don't  mean — " 

259 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"Yes.  Didn't  you  know  that  it  was  Oakley  and 
his  father  who  brought  the  relief  train?  The  old 
man  is  dead.  He  was  killed  on  the  way.  It's  a 
miracle  that  either  of  them  got  through  alive. 
Hadn't  you  heard?" 

Constance  put  out  her  hands  blindly,  for  a  sudden 
mist  had  come  before  her  eyes. 

"  Father,  you  don't  mean  that  Mr.  Oakley  has  re- 
turned to  Antioch — that  he  is  here  now?" 

"Yes,  it  seems  no  one  else  would  come.  Oakley 
was  in  Chicago  when  he  first  heard  of  the  fire,  and 
started  immediately  for  Buckhorn,  where  he  found 
the  relief  train.  Oddly  enough,  he  found  his  father 
there,  too." 

"  Then  there  was  something  to  the  old  man,  after 
all,"  said  Mrs.  Emory,  whose  sympathies  were  as 
generous  as  they  were  easily  aroused. 

"  A  good  deal,  I  should  say.  He  must  have  known 
that  he  was  coming  back  to  arrest  and  almost  certain 
conviction." 

Constance's  glance  searched  her  father's  face.  She 
wanted  to  hear  more  of  Oakley.  Her  heart  was  hun- 
gering for  news  of  this  man  who  had  risked  his  life  to 
save  them.  All  her  lingering  tenderness — the  un- 
willing growth  of  many  days — was  sweeping  away 
the  barriers  of  her  pride.  "Mr.  Oakley  was  not 
hurt?"  she  questioned,  breathlessly,  pale  to  the  lips. 

"He  is  pretty  badly  shaken  up,  and  no  wonder, 
but  he  will  be  all  right  in  the  morning." 

"  Where  is  he  now?"  she  asked. 

Her  father  turned  to  her. 
260 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"Oakley—  You  look  tired  out,  Constance.  Do 
go  to  bed.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  in  the  morning." 

"\Yhere  is  he  now,  papa?"  she  questioned,  going 
to  his  side  and  clasping  her  hands  about  his  arm. 

"  Down  at  the  shop.  They  carried  his  father  there 
from  the  train." 

"Why  didn't  you  have  them  bring  him  here?" 
said  Mrs.  Emory,  quickly.  "  After  this  I  won't  lis- 
ten to  a  word  against  either  of  them.  I  would  like 
to  show  the  town  just  how  we  feel  in  the  matter." 

"I  suggested  it,  but  Oakley  wouldn't  hear  to  it. 
But  don't  worry  about  the  town.  It's  gone  wild. 
You  should  have  seen  the  crowd  on  the  platform 
when  it  saw  Oakley  in  the  engine-cab.  It  went  stark 
mad." 

Again  Constance's  eyes  swam  with  tears.  The 
strike,  the  murder  of  Ryder,  the  fire,  had  each 
seemed  in  turn  a  part  of  the  tragedy  of  her  life  at 
Antioch,  but  Oakley's  return  was  wholly  glorious. 

Her  father  added,  "  I  shall  see  Oakley  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  learn  if  we  can  be  of  any  service  to  him." 

A  little  later,  when  Constance  went  to  her  own 
room,  she  drew  forward  a  chair  and  seated  herself  by 
the  window.  Across  the  town,  on  the  edge  of  the 
"flats,"  she  saw  dimly  the  long,  dark  outline  of  the 
railroad  shop,  with  its  single  tall  chimney.  She 
thought  of  Oakley  as  alone  there  keeping  watch  at 
the  side  of  the  grim  old  murderer,  who  had  so  splen- 
didly redeemed  rrmself  by  this  last  sacrifice. 

Great  clouds  of  black  smoke  were  still  rolling  over 
the  town,  and  the  woods  were  still  blazing  fiercely  in 

261 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

the  distance.  Beyond  her  window  she  heard  the 
call  of  frightened  birds,  as  they  fluttered  to  and  fro 
in  the  dull  red  light,  and  farther  off,  in  the  North  End, 
the  muffled  throbbing  of  the  fire-engines. 

If  she  had  had  any  doubts  as  to  her  feeling  for 
Oakley,  these  doubts  were  now  a  thing  of  the  past. 
She  knew  that  she  loved  him.  She  had  been  petty 
and  vain;  she  had  put  the  small  things  of  life  against 
the  great,  and  this  was  her  punishment.  She  tried 
to  comfort  herself  with  the  thought  that  she  should 
see  him  in  the  morning ;  then  she  could  tell  him  all. 
But  what  could  she  tell  him?  The  time  had  gone 
by  when  she  could  tell  him  anything. 

It  was  almost  morning  when  she  undressed  and 
threw  herself  down  on  her  bed.  She  was  disconso- 
late and  miserable,  and  the  future  seemed  quite  bar- 
ren of  hope  or  happiness.  Love  had  come  to  her,  and 
she  had  not  known  its  presence.  Yes,  she  would  tell 
Oakley  that  she  had  been  little  and  narrow  and  ut- 
terly unworthy.  He  had  cared  for  tier,  and  perhaps 
he  would  understand.  She  fell  asleep  thinking  this, 
and  did  not  waken  until  her  mother  called  her  for 
breakfast. 

"I  am  waiting  for  your  father.  He  has  gone 
down  to  see  Mr.  Oakley/'  Mrs.  Emory  said  when 
she  entered  the  dining-room.  Constance  glanced  at 
the  table. 

"  Is  he  going  to  bring  Mr.  Oakley  back  with  him?" 
she  asked,  nervously. 

"He  expected  to.  I  declare,  Constance,  you  look 
worn  out.  Didn't  you  sleep  well?" 

262 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"No,  not  very.     I  wonder  if  they  are  coming?" 

"You  might  go  look/'  said  her  mother,  and  Con- 
stance hurried  into  the  parlor.  She  was  just  in  time 
to  see  her  father  enter  the  gate.  He  was  alone.  Con- 
stance flew  to  the  front  door  and  threw  it  open. 

"He  wouldn't  come?"  she  cried,  breathlessly. 

"He's  gone." 

"Gone?" 

"Yes,  a  train  was  made  up  early  this  morning, 
and  he  has  returned  to  Buckhorn —  Why,  what's 
the  matter,  Constance?" 

For  Constance,  with  a  little  gasp  of  dismay,  had 
slipped  down  into  a  chair,  with  her  hands  before  her 
face. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  he  questioned,  anxiously. 
But  she  gave  him  no  answer.  She  was  crying  soft- 
ly, unrestrainedly.  It  was  all  over.  Oakley  was 
gone,  and  with  him  went  her  only  hope  of  happiness. 
Yet  more  keen  than  her  sense  of  pain  and  personal 
loss  was  her  regret  that  he  would  never  understand 
that  she  respected  and  admired  him  as  he  de- 
served. 

"I  am  sorry,  Constance,  but  I  didn't  know  that 
you  especially  wanted  to  see  him,"  said  the  doctor, 
awkwardly,  but  with  a  dawning  comprehension  of 
what  it  all  meant.  She  made  no  answer. 

"  What  is  it,  dear?"  he  repeated. 

"Oh,  nothing.  I  wanted  to  tell  him  about  some- 
thing; that  is  all.  It  doesn't  matter  now."  She 
glanced  up  into  his  face  with  a  sudden  doubt.  "  You 
didn't  see  him — you  are  quite  sure  he  went  away 

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The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

without  your  seeing  him — you  are  not  deceiving 
me?" 

"Why,  of  course,  Constance,  but  he'll  come  back." 

"No,  he  won't,  papa,"  shaking  her  head  sadly. 
"He's  gone,  and  he  will  never  come  back.  I  know 
him  better  than  you  do." 

And  then  she  fled  promptly  up-stairs  to  her  own 
room. 

This  was  the  nearest  Constance  came  to  betraying 
her  love  for  Oakley.  She  was  not  much  given  to 
confidences,  and  the  ideals  that  had  sustained  her 
in  her  pride  now  seemed  so  childish  and  unworthy 
that  she  had  no  wish  to  dwell  upon  them,  but  when- 
ever Dan's  name  was  mentioned  in  her  presence  she 
looked  frightened  and  guilty  and  avoided  meeting 
her  father's  glance. 

It  seemed,  indeed,  that  Oakley  had  taken  final 
leave  of  Antioch.  A  new  manager  appeared  and 
took  formal  charge  of  the  destinies  of  the  road.  Un- 
der his  direction  work  was  resumed  in  the  shops,  for 
the  strike  had  died  a  natural  death.  None  of  the 
hands  were  disposed  to  question  the  ten-per-cent. 
cut,  and  before  the  winter  was  over  the  scale  of  wages 
that  had  been  in  force  before  the  strike  was  inaugu- 
rated was  voluntarily  restored.  The  town  had  no 
criticisms  to  make  of  Johnson,  the  new  manager,  a 
quiet,  competent  official ;  the  most  any  one  said  was 
that  he  was  not  Oakley.  That  was  enough.  For 
Dan  had  come  into  his  own. 

Early  in  October  there  was  a  flutter  of  excitement 
when  Turner  Joyce  and  his  wife  left  for  the  East  to 

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The   Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

be  Oakley's  guests.  When  they  returned,  some 
weeks  later,  the3~  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  him 
that  Antioch  was  frankly  curious  to  hear. 

He  had  taken  his  father  to  Burton,  where  his 
mother  was  buried.  Afterwards  he  had  joined  G  en- 
eral  Cornish  in  New  York. 

While  abroad,  the  financier  had  effected  a  combina- 
tion of  interests  which  grouped  a  number  of  roads 
under  one  management,  and  Dan  had  been  made 
general  superintendent  of  the  consolidated  lines, 
with  his  headquarters  in  New  York  City.  The 
Joj'ces  were  but  vaguely  informed  as  to  where  these 
lines  were,  but  they  did  full  justice  to  their  magni- 
tude, as  well  as  to  the  importance  of  Oakley's  new 
connection. 

The  dull  monotony  of  those  fall  days  in  Antioch 
was  never  forgotten  by  Constance  Emory.  She 
was  listless  and  restless  by  turns.  She  had  hoped 
that  she  might  hear  from  Oakley.  She  even  thought 
the  Joyces  might  bring  her  some  message,  but  none 
had  come.  Dan  had  taken  her  at  her  word. 

She  had  made  no  friends,  and,  with  Ryder  dead 
and  Oakley  gone,  she  saw  no  one,  and  finally  set- 
tled down  into  an  apathy  that  alarmed  the  doc- 
tor. He,  after  some  deliberation,  suddenly  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  going  East  to  attend  a 
medical  convention. 

"Shall  you  see  Mr.  Oakle3T?"  Constance  asked, 
with  quick  interest. 

"  Probably,  if  he's  in  New  York  when  I  get  there." 

Constance  gave  him  a  scared  look  and  dropped 
265 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

her  eyes.  But  when  the  time  drew  near  for  his  de- 
parture, she  followed  him  about  as  if  there  were 
something  on  her  mind  which  she  wished  to  foil 
him. 

The  day  he  started,  she  found  courage  to  ask 

"Won't  you  take  me  with  you,  papa?" 

"Not  this  time,  dear/'  he  answered. 

She  was  quiet  for  a  moment,  and  then  said : 

"Papa,  you  are  not  going  to  tell  him?" 

"Tell  who,  Constance?    What?" 

"Mr.  Oakley." 

"What  about  Oakley,  dear?" 

She  looked  at  him  from  under  her  long  lashes, 
while  the  color  slowly  mounted  to  her  cheeks. 

"You  are  not  going  to  tell  him  \vhat  you  think 
you  know?" 

The  doctor  smiled. 

"I  wish  you  would  grant  me  the  possession  of 
ordinary  sense,  Constance.  I  am  not  quite  a  fool." 

"You  are  a  precious,"  she  said,  kissing  him. 

"  Thank  you.  What  message  shah1  I  give  Oakley 
for  you?" 

"None." 

"None?" 

"He  won't  want  to  hear  from  me,"  shj^ly. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  he  just  won't,  papa.  Besides,  I  expect 
he  has  forgotten  that  such  a  person  ever  lived." 

"I  wouldn't  be  too  sure  of  that.  What  was  the 
trouble,  Constance?  You'd  better  tell  me,  or  I  may 
say  something  I  shouldn't." 

266 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"Oh,  you  must  not  say  anything/'  in  alarm. 
"You  must  promise." 

"  Constance,  what  did  Oakley  say  to  you  that  last 
day  he  was  here  at  the  house?" 

Constance's  glance  wandered  meditatively  from 
her  father's  face  to  the  window  and  back  again, 
while  her  color  came  and  went.  There  was  a  far- 
away, wistful  look  in  her  eyes,  and  a  sad  little  smile 
on  her  lips.  At  last  she  said,  softly,  "  Oh,  he  said  a 
number  of  things.  I  can't  remember  now  all  he  did 
say." 

"Did  Oakley  tell  you  he  cared  for  you?" 

Constance  hesitated  a  moment,  then,  reluctantly : 

"  Well,  yes,  he  did.  And  I  let  him  go,  thinking  I 
didn't  care  for  him,"  miserably,  and  with  a  pathetic 
droop  of  her  lips,  from  which  the  smile  had  fled.  "  I 
didn't  know,  and  I  have  been  so  unhappy!" 

"Oh!" 

Constance  left  the  room  abruptly. 

When  he  reached  New  York,  the  first  thing  the 
doctor  did  was  to  look  up  Oakley.  He  was  quick 
to  notice  a  certain  constraint  in  the  young  man's 
manner  as  they  shook  hands,  but  this  soon  passed 
off. 

"  I  am  awfully  glad  to  see  you,"  he  had  said.  "  I 
have  thought  of  you  again  and  again,  and  I  have 
been  on  the  point  of  writing  you  a  score  of  times.  I 
haven't  forgotten  your  kindness  to  me." 

"Nonsense,  Oakley.  I  liked  you,  and  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  me  to  be  able  to  show  my  regard,"  re- 
sponded the  doctor,  with  hearty  good-will. 

267 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Emory— and  Miss  Emory?" 

"  They  are  both  very  well.  They  were  just  a  little 
hurt  that  you  ran  off  without  so  much  as  a  good-- 
bye." 

Oakley  gave  him  a  quick  glance. 

"  She  is— Miss  Emory  is  still  in  Antioch?" 

The  doctor  nodded. 

"  I  didn't  know  but  what  she  might  be  in  the  city 
with  you/'  Dan  explained,  with  evident  disappoint- 
ment. 

"Aren't  we  ever  going  to  see  you  in  Antioch 
again?"  inquired  the  doctor.  He  put  the  question 
with  studied  indifference.  Dan  eagerly  scanned  his 
face.  The  doctor  fidgeted  awkwardly. 

"Do  you  think  I'd  better  go  back?"  he  asked, 
with  a  perceptible  dwelling  on  the  "you." 

The  doctor's  face  became  a  trifle  red.  He  seemed 
to  weigh  the  matter  carefully ;  then  he  said : 

"Yes,  I  think  you'd  better.  Antioch  would  like 
mightily  to  lay  hands  on  you." 

Dan  laughed  happily. 

"  You  don't  suppose  a  fellow  could  dodge  all  that, 
do  you?  You  see,  I  was  going  west  to  Chicago  in  a 
day  or  so,  and  I  had  thought  to  take  a  run  on  to  An- 
tioch. As  a  matter  of  fact,  Cornish  wants  me  to 
keep  an  eye  on  the  shops.  They  are  doing  well, 
you  know,  and  we  don't  want  any  falling  off.  But, 
you  understand,  I  don't  want  to  get  let  in  for  any 
fool  hysterics,"  he  added,  impatiently. 

Notwithstanding  the  supposed  confidence  in 
which  telegrams  are  transmitted,  Brown,  the  day 

268 


The  Manager  of  the  B.   &  A. 

man  at  Antioeh,  generally  used  his  own  discretion 
in  giving  publicity  to  any  facts  of  local  interest  that 
came  under  his  notice.  But  when  he  wrote  off  Dr. 
Emory's  message,  announcing  that  he  and  Oakley 
were  in  Chicago,  and  would  arrive  in  Antioeh  the 
last  of  the  week,  he  held  it  for  several  hours,  not 
quite  knowing  what  to  do.  Finally  he  delivered  it 
in  person,  a  sacrifice  of  official  dignity  that  only 
the  exigencies  of  the  occasion  condoned  in  his  eyes. 
As  he  handed  it  to  Mrs.  Emory,  he  said : 

"It's  from  the  doctor.  You  needn't  be  afraid  to 
open  it;  he's  all  right.  He'll  be  back  Saturday 
night,  and  he's  bringing  Mr.  Oakley  with  him.  I 
came  up  to  see  if  you  had  any  objection  to  my  letting 
the  town  know?" 

Mrs.  Emory  saw  no  reason  wrhy  the  knowledge  of 
Oakley's  return  should  be  withheld,  and  in  less  than 
half  an  hour  Antioeh,  with  bated  breath,  was  dis- 
cussing the  news  on  street  corners  and  over  back 
fences. 

That  night  the  town  council  met  in  secret  session 
to  consider  the  weighty  matter  of  his  reception,  for 
by  common  consent  it  was  agreed  that  the  town 
must  take  official  action.  It  was  suggested  that  he 
be  given  the  freedom  of  the  city.  This  sounded 
large,  and  met  with  instant  favor,  but  when  the 
question  arose  as  to  how  the  freedom  of  the  city 
was  conferred,  the  president  turned,  with  a  slight- 
ly embarrassed  air,  to  the  member  who  had  made 
the  motion.  The  member  explained,  with  some  re- 
serve, that  he  believed  the  most  striking  feature  had 

269 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

to  do  with  the  handing  over  of  the  city  keys  to  the 
guest  of  honor.  But,  unfortunately,  Antioch  had 
no  city  keys  to  deliver.  The  only  keys  that,  by  any 
stretch  of  the  imagination,  could  be  so  called,  were 
those  of  the  court-house,  and  they  -were  lost.  Here 
an  appeal  was  made  to  the  Hon.  Jeb  Barrows, 
who  was  usually  called  in  to  straighten  out  any 
parliamentary  tangles  in  which  the  council  became 
involved.  That  eminent  statesman  was  leaning 
dreamily  against  a  pillar  at  the  end  of  the  council- 
chamber.  On  one  of  his  cards  he  had  already  pen- 
cilled the  brief  suggestion:  "Feed  him,  and  have 
out  the  band."  He  handed  the  card  to  the  presi- 
dent, and  the  council  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  The 
momentous  question  of  Oakley's  official  reception 
was  settled. 

When  Dan  and  Dr.  Emory  stepped  from  No.  7 
Saturday  night  the  station  platform  was  crowded 
with  men  and  boys.  The  brass-band,  which  An- 
tioch loved  with  a  love  that  stifled  criticism,  per- 
spiring and  in  dire  haste,  was  turning  the  street 
corner  half  a  block  distant.  Across  the  tracks  at 
the  railroad  shops  a  steam-whistle  shrieked  an  ec- 
static welcome. 

Dan  glanced  at  the  doctor  with  a  slightly  puzzled  air. 

"What  do  you  suppose  is  the  matter?"  he  asked, 
unsuspiciously. 

"  Why,  man,  don't  you  understand?    It's  you!" 

There  was  no  need  for  him  to  say  more,  for  the 
crowd  had  caught  sight  of  Dan,  and  a  hundred  voices 
cried : 

270 


The  Manager   of  the  B.  &  A. 

"  There  he  is !  There's  Oakley !" 
And  in  an  instant  Antioch,  giving  way  to  wild 
enthusiasm,  was  cheering  itself  black  in  the  face, 
while  above  the  sound  of  cheers  and  the  crash  of 
music,  the  steam- whistle  at  the  shops  shrieked  and 
pealed. 

The  blood  left  Oakley's  face.  He  looked  down  at 
the  crowd  and  saw  Turner  Joyce.  He  saw  McClin- 
tock  and  Holt  and  the  men  from  the  shops,  who  were, 
if  possible,  the  noisiest  of  all.  He  turned  helplessly 
to  the  doctor. 

"Let's  get  out  of  this,"  he  said  between  his  teeth. 
The  crowd  and  the  noise  and  the  excitement  re- 
called that  other  night  when  he  had  ridden  into 
Antioch.  As  he  spoke  he  swung  himself  down 
from  the  steps  of  the  coach,  and  the  crowd  closed 
about  him  with  a  glad  shout  of  welcome. 

The  doctor  followed  more  slowly.  As  he  gained 
the  platform,  the  Hon  Jeb  Barrows  hurried  to  his  side. 

"  Where  is  he  to  go,  Doc?"  he  panted.  "  To  your 
house,  or  to  the  hotel?" 

"To  my  house." 

"  All  right,  then.  The  crowd's  spoiling  the  whole 
business.  I've  got  an  address  of  welcome  in  my 
pocket  that  I  was  to  have  delivered,  and  there's  to  be 
a  supper  at  the  Rink  to-night.  Don't  let  him  get 
away  from  you." 

Meanwhile,  Dan  had  succeeded  in  extricating 
himself  from  the  clutches  of  his  friends,  and  was 
struggling  towards  a  closed  carriage  at  the  end  of 
the  platform  that  he  recognized  as  the  Emorys'. 

271 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

In  his  haste  and  the  dusk  of  the  dull  October  twi- 
light, he  supposed  the  figure  he  saw  in  the  carriage 
to  be  the  doctor,  who  had  preceded  him,  and  called  to 
the  man  on  the  box  to  drive  home. 

As  he  settled  himself,  he  said,  reproachfully : 

"I  hope  you  hadn't  anything  to  do  with  this?" 

A  slim,  gloved  hand  was  placed  in  his  own,  and  a 
laughing  voice  said : 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Oakley?" 

He  glanced  up  quickly,  and  found  himself  face  to 
face  with  Constance  Emory. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  Dan  said, 
the  courage  that  had  brought  him  all  the  way  to 
Antioch  suddenly  deserting  him: 

"  It's  too  bad,  isn't  it  ?  I  had  hoped  I  could  slip 
in  and  out  of  town  without  any  one  being  the 
wiser." 

"But  you  can't,"  with  a  little  air  of  triumph. 
"  Antioch  is  going  to  entertain  you.  It's  been  in  a 
perfect  furor  of  excitement  ever  since  it  knew  you 
were  coming  back." 

"Well,  I  suppose  there  is  no  help  for  it,"  resign- 
edly. 

"  Where  is  my  father,  Mr.  Oakley?" 

"I  guess  we  left  him  behind,"  with  sudden  cheer- 
fulness. He  leaned  forward  so  that  he  could  look 
into  her  face. 

"Constance,  I  have  returned  because  I  couldn't 
stay  away  any  longer.  I  tried  to  forget,  but  it  was 
no  use." 

She  had  withdrawn  her  hand,  but  he  had  found  it 
272 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

again,  and  now  his  fingers  closed  over  it  and  held  it 
fast.  He  was  feeling  a  sense  of  ownership. 

"Did  you  come  to  meet  me?"  he  asked. 

"  I  came  to  meet  papa. " 

"But  you  knew  I  was  coming,  too?" 

"Oh  no." 

It  was  too  dark  for  him  to  see  the  color  that  was 
slowly  mounting  to  her  face. 

"  Constance,  I  don't  believe  you,"  he  cried. 

"I  was  not  sure  you  were  coming,"  Constance 
said,  weakly. 

"  You  might  have  known  that  I'd  come  back — 
that  I  couldn't  stay  away." 

"Don't  you  think  you  have  been  a  long  time  in 
making  that  discovery?" 

"  Well,  yes,  but  when  I  saw  your  father — " 

"What  did  papa  say  to  you?"  with  keen  sus- 
picion in  her  tones. 

"You  mustn't  blame  him,  Constance.  It  was 
not  so  much  what  he  said  as  what  he  didn't  say.  I 
never  knew  any  one  to  be  quite  so  ostentatious 
about  what  was  left  unsaid." 

Constance  freed  her  hand,  and,  shrinking  into  a 
corner,  covered  her  face.  She  had  a  painful  realiza- 
tion of  the  direction  those  confidences  must  have 
taken,  between  her  father,  who  only  desired  her 
happiness,  and  the  candid  Oakley,  who  only  desired 
her  love. 

"  Was  there  any  use  in  my  coming?  You  must  be 
fair  with  me  now.  It's  too  serious  a  matter  for  you 
not  to  be." 

s  273 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

"  You  think  I  was  not  fair  once?" 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,  but  you  have  changed." 

"For  the  better,  Mr.  Oakley?" 

"Infinitely,"  with  blunt  simplicity. 

"  You  haven't  changed  a  scrap.  You  are  just  as 
rude  as  you  ever  were." 

Dan  cast  a  hurried  glance  from  the  window. 

"  Constance,  we  won't  have  much  more  time  to 
ourselves ;  we  are  almost  home.  Won't  you  tell  me 
what  I  have  come  to  hear — that  you  do  care  for  me, 
and  will  be  my  wife?  You  know  that  I  love  you. 
But  you  mustn't  send  me  from  you  a  second  time 
without  hope." 

"  I  shouldn't  think  you  would  care  about  me  now. 
I  wouldn't  care  about  you  if  you  had  been  as  un- 
worthy as  I  have  been,"  her  voice  faltered.  "I 
might  have  shown  you  that  I,  too,  could  be  brave, 
but  I  let  the  opportunity  pass,  and  now,  when  every- 
one is  proud — " 

"  But  I  do  care.  I  care  a  great  deal,  for  I  love  you 
just  as  I  have  loved  you  from  the  very  first." 

She  put  out  both  her  hands. 

"  If  you  had  only  looked  back  when  you  left  the 
house  that  day  you  told  me  you  cared — " 

"What,  Constance?" 

"I  was  at  the  window.  I  thought  you'd  surely 
look  back,  and  then  you  would  have  known — " 

"My  darling!" 

The  carriage  had  drawn  up  to  the  Emorys*  gate. 

Dan  jumped  out  and  gave  Constance  his  hand. 
Off  in  the  distance  they  heard  the  band.  Constance 

274 


The  Manager  of  the  B.  &  A. 

paused  and  rested  her  hand  gently  on  Oakley's 
arm. 

"Hark!     Do  you  hear?" 

"I  wish  they'd  stop  their  confounded  nonsense/' 
said  Dan. 

"No,  you  can't  stop  them/'  delightedly.  "An- 
tioch  feels  a  sense  of  proprietorship.  But  do  you 
hear  the  music,  Dan?" 

"  Yes,  dear.     It's  the  band. " 

"  Of  course  it's  the  band.  But  do  you  know  what 
it  is  playing?" 

Oakley  shook  his  head  dubiously.  She  gave  his 
arm  a  little  pat  and  laughed  softly. 

"  It  might  be  difficult  to  recognize  it,  but  it's  the 
bridal-march  from  'Lohengrin.'" 

"  If  they  stick  to  that,  I  don't  care,  Constance. " 

And  side  by  side  they  went  slowly  and  silently  up 
the  path  to  the  house. 


THE  END 


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one  of  the  most  accurate  and  picturesque  of  the  stampede  of  gold 
seekers  to  the  Yukon.  The  love  story  embedded  in  the  narrative 
is  strikingly  original, 

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THE  SILENT  CALL.    B>    Edwin    Milton   Royle.     Illustrated 
with  scenes  from  the  play. 

The  hero  of  this  story  is  the  Squaw  Man's  son.  He  has 
been  taken  to  England,  but  spurns  conventional  life  for  the  sake 
of  the  untamed  West  and  a  girl's  pretty  face. 

JOHN  MARCH,    SOUTHERNER.    By  George  W.  Cable. 

A  story  of  the  pretty  women  and  spirited  men  of  the  South. 
As  fragrant  in  sentiment  as  a  sprig  of  magnolia,  and  as  full  of 
mystery  and  racial  troubles  as  any  romance  of  "after  the  war" 
days. 

MR.  JUSTICE  RAFFLES.    By  E.  W.  Hornung. 

This  engaging  rascal  is  found  helping  a  young  cricket  player 
out  of  the  toils  of  a  money  shark.  Novel  in  plot,  thrilling  and 
amusing. 

FORTY  MINUTES  LATE.  By  F.  Hopkinson  Smith.  Illustrated 
by  S.  M.  Chase. 

Delightfully  human  stories  of  every  day  happenings;  of  a 
lecturer's  laughable  experience  because  he  s  late,  a  young  woman's 
excursion  into  the  stock  maiket,  etc. 

OLD  LADY  NUMBER  31.    By  Louise  Forsslund. 

A  heart- warming  story  of  American  rural  life,  telling  of  the 
adventures  of  an  old  couple  in  an  old  folk's  home,  their  sunny, 
philosophical  acceptance  of  misfortune  and  ultimate  prosperity. 

THE  HUSBAND'S  STORY.    By  David  Graham  Phillips. 

A  story  that  has  given  all  Europe  as  well  as  all  America  much 
food  for  thought.  A  young  couple  begin  life  in  humble  circum- 
stances and  rise  in  worldly  matters  until  the  husband  is  enormously 
rich— the  wife  in  the  most  aristocratic  European  society— but  at  the 
price  of  their  happiness. 

THE  TRAIL  OF  NINETY- EIGHT.      By  Robert  W.  Service. 

Illustrated  by  Maynard  Dixon. 

One  of  the  best  stories  of  "Vagabondia"  ever  written,  and 
one  of  the  most  accurate  and  picturesque  descriptions  of  the  stam- 
pede of  gold  seekers  to  the  Yukon.  The  love  story  embedded  in 
the  narrative  is  strikingly  original. 

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THE     SECOND     WIFE.    By  Thompson  Buchanan.  Illustrated 
by  W.  W.  Fawcett.    Harrison  Fisher  wrapper  printed  in  four 

Colors  and  gold. 

An  intensely  interesting  story  of  a  marital  complication  in 

a   wealthy    New    York    family    involving    the    happiness    of   a 

beautiful  young  girl. 

TESS  OF  THE  STORM  COUNTRY.    By  Grace  Miller  White. 
Illustrated  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 
An  amazingly  vivid   picture  of   low   class     life  in   a  New 

York  college  town,  with  a  heroine  beautiful  and  noble,  who  makes 

a  great  sacrifice  for  love. 

.FROM  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MISSING.    By  Grace  Miller 
White. 
Frontispiece  and  wrapper  in  colors  by  Penrhyn  Stanlaws. 

Another  story  of  "the  storm  country."  Two  beautiful  chil- 
dren are  kidnapped  from  a  wealthy  home  and  appear  many  years 

after  showing  the   effects   of   a  deep,   malicious   scheme  "behind 

their  disappearance. 

THE    LIGHTED   MATCH.     By  Charles  Neville  Buck.    Illus- 
trated by  R.  F.  Schabelitz. 
A  lovely  princess  travels  incognito  through  the  States  and 

falls  in  love  with  an  American  man.    There  are  ties  that  bind  her 

to  someone  in  her  own  home,  and  the  great  plot   revolves   round 

aer  efforts  to  work  her  way  out. 

MAUD    BAXTER.    By  C.   C.    Hotchkiss.    Illustrated  by  Will 
Grefe. 

A  romance  both  daring  and  delightful,  involving  an  Amer- 
ican girl  and  a  young  man  who  had  been  impressed  into  English 
service  during  the  Revolution. 

THE    HIGHWAYMAN.    By  Guy   Rawlence.     Illustrated  by 
Will  Grefe. 

A  French  beauty  of  mysterious  antecedents  wins  the  love 
'of  an  Englishman  of  title.  Developments  of  a  startling  character  i 
and  a  clever  untangling  of  affairs  hold  the  reader's  iuterest. 

THE    PURPLE    STOCKINGS.     By  Edward  Salisbury   Field. 
Illustrated  in  colors;  marginal  illustrations. 

A  young  New  York  business  man,  his  pretty  sweetheart, 
his  sentimental  stenographer,  and  his  fashionable  sister  are  all 
mixed  up  in  a  misunderstanding  that  surpasses  anything  in  the 
way  of  comedy  in  years.  A  story  with  a  laugh  on  every  page. 

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THE  MUSIC  MASTER.    By  Charles  Klein.     Illustrated 

by  John  Rae. 

This  marvelously  vivid  narrative  turns  upon  the  search  of  a  Ger 
man  musician  in  .New  York  for  his  little  daughter.  Mr.  Klein  ha* 
jrell  portrayed  his  pathetic  struggle  with  poverty,  his  varied  expe 
riences  in  endeavoring  to  meet  the  demands  of  a  public  not  trained 
to  an  appreciation  of  the  classic,  and  his  final  great  hour  when,  in 
the  rapidly  shifting  events  of  a  big  city,  his  little  daughter,  now  a 
beautifnl  young  woman,  is  brought  to  his  very  door.  A  superb  bit 
of  fiction,  palpitating  with  the  life  of  the  great  metropolis.  The 
play  in  which  David  Warn  eld  scored  his  highest  success. 

DR.    LAVENDAR'S    PEOPLE.      By    Margaret  Deland, 

Illustrated  by  Lucius  Hitchcock. 

Mrs.  Deland  won  so  many  friends  through  Old  Chester  Tales 
that  this  volume  needs  no  introduction  beyond  its  title.  The  lova- 
ble doctor  is  more  ripened  in  this  later  book,  and  the  simple  come« 
dies  and  tragedies  of  the  old  village  are  told  with  dramatic  charm. 

OLD  CHESTER  TALES.  By  Margaret  Deland.  Illustrated 

by  Howard  Pyle. 

Stories  portraying  with  delightful  humor  and  pathos  a  quaint  peo- 
ple in  a  sleepy  old  town.  Dr.  Lavendar,  a  very  human  and  lovable 
"preacher,"  is  the  connecting  link  between  these  dramatic  stories 
from  life. 

HE  FELL  IN  LOVE  WITH  HIS  WIFE.    By  E.  P.  Roe. 

With  frontispiece. 

The  hero  is  a  farmer — a  man  with  honest,  sincere  views  of  life. 
Beieft  of  his  wife,  his  home  is  cared  for  by  a  succession  of  domes- 
tics of  varying  degrees  of  inefficiency  until,  from  a  most  unpromis- 
ing source,  comes  a  young  woman  who  not  only  becomes  his  wife 
but  commands  his  respect  and  eventually  wins  his  love.  A  bright 
and  delicate  romance,  revealing  on  both  sides  a  love  that  surmounts 
all  difficulties  and  survives  the  censure  of  friends  as  well  as  the  bit- 
terness of  enemies. 

THE  YOKE.    By  Elizabeth  Miller. 

Against  the  historical  background  of  the  days  when  the  children 
of  Israel  were  delivered  from  the  bondage  of  Egypt,  the  author  has 
sketched  a  romance  of  compelling  charm.  A  biblical  novel  as  great 
as  any  since  "  Ben  Hur." 

SAUL  OF  TARSUS.    By  Elizabeth  Miller.    Illustrated  by 

Andre'  Castaigne. 

The  scenes  of  this  stery  are  laid  in  Jerusalem,  Alexandria,  Rome 
and  Damascus.  The  Apostle  Paul,  the  Martyr  Stephen,  Herod 
Agrippa  and  the  Emperors  Tiberius  and  Caligula  are  among  the 
mighty  figures  that  move  through  the  pages.  Wonderful  descrip- 
tions, and  a  love  story  of  the  purest  and  noblest  type  mark  thjs 
most  remarkable  religious  romance. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


A  FEW  OF 

GROSSET  &   DUNLAP'S 
Great  Books  at  Little  Prices 

QUINCY    ADAMS    SAWYER.      A  Picture  of  New 
England  Home  Life.    With  illustrations  by  C.  W 
Reed,  and  Scenes  Reproduced  from  the  Play. 
One  of  the  best  New  England  stories  ever  written.    It  is 
full  of  homely  human  interest  *  *  *  there  is  a  wealth  of  New 
England  village  character,  scenes  and  incidents  *  *  *  forcibly, 
vividly  and  truthfully  drawn.    Few  books  have  enjoyed  a 
greater  sale  and  popularity.    Dramatized,  it  made  the  great- 
est rural  play  of  recent  times. 

THE  FURTHER  ADVENTURES  OF  QUINCY 
ADAMS  SAWYER.  By  Charles  Felton  Pidgin. 
Illustrated  by  Henry  Roth. 

All  who  love  honest  sentiment,  quaint  and  sunny  humort 
and  homespun  philosophy  will  find  these  "  Further  Adven- 
tures" a  book  after  their  own  heart. 

HALF  A  CHANCE.  By  Frederic  S.  Isham.  Illus, 
trated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

The  thrill  of  excitement  will  keep  the  reader  in  a  state  of 
Suspense,  and  he  will  become  personally  concerned  from  the 
start,  as  to  the  central  character,  a  very  real  man  who  suffers, 
dares — and  achieves ! 

VIRGINIA   OF   THE   AIR    LANES.    By   Herbert 

Quick.    Illustrated  by  William  R.  Leigh. 
The  author  has  seized  the  romantic  moment  for  the  airship 
Hovel,  and  created  the  pretty  story  of  "  a  lover  and  his  lass  " 
contending  with  an  elderly  relative  for  the  monopoly  of  the 
skies.    An  exciting  tale  of  adventure  in  midair. 

THE  GAME  AND  THE  CANDLE.     By  Eleanor  Mt 

Ingram.    Illustrated  by  P.  D.  Johnson. 
The  hero  is  a  young  American,  who,  to  save  his  family  fron.  > 
poverty,  deliberately  commits  a  felony.    Then  follow  his  cap- 
ture and  imprisonment,  and  his  rescue  by  a  Russian  Grand 
Duke.    A  stirring  story,  rich  in  sentiment. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


KATE  DOUGLAS  WIGGIN'S 
STORIES   OF  PURE   DELIGHT 

Full   of   originality  and   humor,    kindliness   and  cheer 

THE  OLD  PEABODY  PEW.  Large  Octavo.  Decorative 
text  pages,  printed  in  two  colors.  Illustrations  by  Alice 
Barber  Stephens. 

One  of  the  prettiest  romances  that  has  ever  come  from  this 
author's  pen  is  made  to  bloom  on  Christmas  Eve  in  the  sweet 
freshness  of  an  old  New  England  meeting  house. 

PENELOPE'S  PROGRESS.  Attractive  cover  design  in 
colors. 

Scotland  is  the  background  for  the  merry  doings  of  three  very 
clever  and  original  American  girls.  Their  adventures  in  adjusting 
themselves  to  the  Scot  and  his  land  are  full  of  humor. 

PENELOPE'S  IRISH  EXPERIENCES.  Uniform  in  style 

with  "Penelope's  Progress." 

The  trio  of  clever  girls  who  rambled  over  Scotland  cross  the  bor- 
der to  the  Emerald  Isle,  and  again  they  sharpen  their  wics  against 
new  conditions,  and  revel  in  the  land  of  laughter  and  wit. 

REBECCA  OF  SUNNYBROOK  FARM. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  studies  of  childhood — Rebecca's  artis- 
tic, unusual  and  quaintly  charming  qualities  stand  cut  midst  a  circle 
of  austere  New  Englanders.  The  stage  version  is  making  a  phe- 
nomenal dramatic  record. 

NEW  CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA.  With  illustrations 
by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

Some  more  quaintly  amusing  chronicles  that  carry  Rebeccs 
through  various  stages  to  her  eighteenth  birthday. 

ROSE  O'  THE  RIVER.  With  Ulustrations  by  George 
Wright. 

The  simple  story  of  Rose,  a  country  girl  and  Stephen  a  sturdy 
young  farmer,  The  girl's  fancy  for  a  city  man  interrupts  their  love 
and  merges  the  story  into  an  emotional  strain  where  the  reader  fol- 
lows the  events  with  rapt  attention. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


B.  M.  Bower's  Novels 

Thrilling  Western  Romances 

Large  12  mos.  Handsomely  bound  in  cloth.      Illustrated 

CHIP,  OF  THE  FLYING  U 

A  breezy  wholesome  tale,  •wherein  the  love  affairs  of  Chip  and 
Delia  Whitman  are  charmingly  and  humorously  told.  Chip's 
jealousy  of  Dr.  Cecil  Grantham,  who  turns  out  to  be  a  big.  blue 
eyed  young  woman  is  very  amusing.  A  clever,  realistic  story  of 
the  American  Cow-puncher. 

THE  HAPPY  FAMILY 

A  lively  and  amusing  story,  dealing  with  the  adventures  of 
eighteen  jovial,  big  hearted  Montana  cowboys.     Foremost  amongst 
them,  we  find  Ananias  Green,  known  as  Andy,  whose  imaginative 
powers  cause  many  lively  and  exciting  adventures. 
HER  PRAIRIE  KNIGHT 

A  realistic  story  of  the  plains,  describing  a  gay  party  of  Eas- 
terners who  exchange  a  cottage  at  Newport  for  the  rough  homeli- 
ness of  a  Montana  ranch-house.  The  merry-hearted  cowboys,  the 
fascinating  Beatrice,  and  the  effusive  Sir  Redmond,  become  living, 
breathing  personalities. 

THE  RANGE  DWELLERS  

Here  are  everyday,  genuine  cowboys,  just  as  they  really  exist 
Spirited  action,  a  range  feud  between  two  families,  and  a  Romeo 
and  Juliet  courtship  make  this  a  bright,  jolly,  ^entertaining  story, 
without  a  dull  page. 

THE    LURE  OF  DIM  TRAILS 

A  vivid  portrayal  of  the  experience  of  an  Eastern  author, 
among  the  cowboys  of  the  West,  in  search  of  "local  color"  for  a 
new  novel.  "Bud"  Thurston  learns  many  a  lesson  while  following 
"the  iure  of  the  dim  trails"  but  the  hardest,  and  probably  the  most 
welcome,  is  that  of  love. 
THE  LONESOME  TRAIL 

"Weary"  Davidson  leaves  the  ranch  for  Portland,  where  con- 
ventional city  life  palls  on  him.  A  little  branch  of  sasre  brush, 
pungent  with  the  atmosphere  of  the  prairie,  and  the  recollection  of 
a  pair  of  large  brown  eyes  soon  compel  his  return.  A  wholesome 
love  story, 

THE  LONG  SHADOW 

A  vigorous  Western  story,  sparkling  with'  the  free,  outdoor, 
life  of  a  mountain  ranch.  Its  scenes  shift  rapidly  and  its  actors  play 
the  game  of  life  fearlessly  and  like  men.  It  is  a  fine  love  story  from 
start  to  finish. 

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••'•(    in  "in  Mill  llliMIIIIH  11(11  HI) 

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